


Foolish People

by abovetheserpentine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Comeplay, Dom/sub, Fluff, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Kink Negotiation, Light Bondage, M/M, Misunderstandings, Rimming, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex, Wax Play, more tags to come as i write the sex scenes lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-01-29 16:57:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 61,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12635256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: Liam thinks this is what love is supposed to feel like; not that echo of it he had before, when submission was all it took. Harry means so much more,isso much more.But these things have a way of falling apart - even if it's by Liam's own hand.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [post.](https://undercutzayn.tumblr.com/post/167067598580/ticklefightharry-tomlitsons-get-you-a-man-who)
> 
> Title taken from the Chris Isaak song _Wicked Game_.

“Mr. Payne,” Zayn says, his voice echoing in Liam’s office, his timbre rougher through the tinny quality of the phone and grating on Liam’s hungover ears, “Your twelve o’clock is here. Harry Styles.”

Liam frowns. He’s rather good at remembering his schedule – Zayn’s terrible at it, so he’s had to hone his memory techniques over the years – and he can’t recall a twelve o’clock. A twelve thirty, yes. But if his memory serves him right, he had between his eleven thirty and his twelve thirty to prepare for the meeting, reading over quarterly reports and amended P.R. strategies. Dry, but a necessity for his label. 

“Send them in.” Liam replies, still frowning as he adjusts his glasses. His eyes get tired looking at a computer screen most of the day, and it’s about the only thing that eases the strain. He takes them off, pinching his nose so his nails dig into his tear ducts, pushing in painfully and relishing in the colours that bloom behind his lids, a kaleidoscope that distracts him from his thoughts.

“Mr. Payne?” A voice calls out from the door, and Liam blinks away the rainbow illusion, lifting his head to squint up at the door.

The man is young – younger than most of Liam’s associates by a mile – and his feet are turned into each other. Liam has the idle thought he looks like a duckling, lost and unable to waddle after its mother – but his eyes catch Liam’s and that thought flies right out the window. Curls frame his heart-shaped face, a sharp jawline in strong contrast to his soft, pink lips.

Liam clears his throat, giving his usual smile in these situations – a little bland, but who else is to know? – and gestures the man in, watching the way he almost stumbles over his own feet, sturdy thighs encased so tightly in skinny jeans Liam spares a sorry thought for the state of his cock, likely getting crushed as he sits, a notepad in his lap and a pen in his hand. He brings the other up to push a lock of brown hair behind his hair – though in the light it has an auburn quality, like maybe there’s a redheaded gene in there somewhere. A subtle mahogany, much like Liam’s desk. 

“Well,” Liam starts, realising he still has not even a vague notion as to why Harry Styles, a young man who looks to be chewing nervously on his lip, is in his office at twelve o’clock on a Thursday. “What can I do for you?”

He seems to jolt at that, and with a faint blush gracing his cheeks he offers Liam a bright smile, blinding in its ability to render Liam a little breathless.

“Sorry, sorry,” He says, lifting himself out of the chair and leaning over the desk, extending a hand, “I’m usually much better at this. Your receptionist, he’s...” Harry looks over his shoulder, as if trying to remember exactly what Zayn is.

“He’s a little jarring,” Liam acknowledges, admitting defeat and shaking Harry’s hand, feeling warmth spread through him at the grin still in place on his face, “I know. A bloody good assistant, but he’s so pretty he sometimes gets people a bit...” Their hands are still touching, the tips of Liam’s fingers pressing lightly into the side of Harry’s palm. Harry looks back at him at the pause, green eyes wide, his cheeks still flushed. “Flustered.”

Harry’s blush darkens, but instead of coughing to rid the room of the awkwardness, or hurriedly rushing into business, his smile just gets wider, his gaze more intent on Liam. 

Their hands slide from the mutual grip, and Liam entwines his fingers and places them on his desk, the metal of his watch making a soft sound against the wood. Harry’s eyes dart to it in the silence, but he quickly looks back at Liam, readjusting his notepad to better write on it, licking his lips.

“I’m not sure if,” He frowns, and his intonation is slow and measured in a way Liam appreciates, so used to the rush of his usual appointments, the hurry to get the worst out of the way in the face of Liam’s sharply pressed suit and quiffed hair, like they’re consciously intimidating instead of a necessity. “If Zayn mentioned where I was from.”

“Not exactly.” Liam prompts, softening his voice as Harry’s mouth twists in discomfort, though he straightens his expression quick enough, eyes flitting from his notepad to Liam’s face, too curious for his own good but trying to stay polite, anyway.

“Alrigh’,” he says, and suddenly it’s like his posture changes into something a little stiffer, more formal. “He said I only had five minutes, so I guess I’ll–” The contrast leaves Liam reeling, because suddenly Harry Styles looks determined instead of what Liam was beginning to consider cute, his wrist rolling as he gestures as if to say ‘get on with it’. 

“I’m here on behalf of Birkbeck,” Liam raises his eyebrows, wondering why the fact Harry is a university student makes his skin itch just a little, “I’m in my last year of Journalism and I’ve to write a feature article.”

Liam’s eyes trace his face, follow the shadows of the tattoos he’s now noticing peek out from under the cuffs of Harry’s button down.

“I, uh, well I’d hoped to write it on you, I suppose.” Harry’s eyes lock with his then, and Liam lets him sit there for a moment, wondering, but he lets a smile take over his old face, waiting until Harry returns it before he laughs.

“I don’t think there’s enough for a feature article on me, Harry,” Liam tells him, trying to siphon out the bitterness in his tone, remembering Zayn’s insistence that he stop looking at his success as a failure. “Besides, I’m not entirely sure there’s anything you’d be able to hone in on as an exclusive.”

Liam keeps his face perfectly blank.

“No, no,” Harry rushes to say, and he laughs as well, eyes crinkling a little even though he’s pushed his knees together now, booted feet touching. He’s suddenly years younger, like he’s just out of sixth form and Liam internally recoils at the thought, wishing Harry would put back on the determined face, the slightly intense air. Liam might have preferences, and Harry might hit a fair few of them, but he never wants that again – never wants to feel like he’s too powerful, like someone doesn’t have a say.

 _What are you thinking?_ Liam scolds himself, pushing those memories away, focusing on the pen in Harry’s wide palm. _He’s a student, and he’s here for a five minute interview, there’s no way–_

“–at all. I was just hoping, you know,” he gestures again, and Liam leans back in his chair a tad, watching Harry’s ringed fingers, “To be who you are is... a lot, I’m guessing. No one’s really taken the time to ask you about anything but the fact everyone seemed to agree you were too young when you started.”

Liam doesn’t really know what to say, the echo of his thoughts bouncing around his head too loud to give Harry’s spiel much consideration. He looks at his glasses, resting on his desk and glinting in the sunlight shining through his floor to ceiling windows.

“I’ve bullocksed this up, haven’t I?” Harry says, and Liam looks up to see him smiling wryly, shaking his head as he flips the cover of his notepad over, shoving his pen through the binder and standing as if to leave. “I’m sorry, Mr. Payne, I’ll get out of your hair. It’s been about five, anyway.” Harry says, and he turns as if to leave. Liam notices he shoulders a satchel, shoving the notepad in there quickly as he strides toward the door.

“Wait,” Liam calls out, and Harry stops, pausing a moment before turning his head to look at him, standing from his chair and making his way over. Liam wonders what in the ever-loving hell he’s doing; he’s just moving purely on instinct because the soft look of Harry’s skin has him mesmerised, the cut of his jaw has him staring.

He’s shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet – he’d planned to pop out for a quick lunch from the local Pret before this whole thing – and then it’s open, and he dips fingers in and pulls out fifty quid, his other hand grabbing Harry’s and pulling it toward him, placing the folded note in his palm and making sure Harry’s fingers close over it. Harry unfurls them anyway and, after a lengthy moment, looks up from his open hand.

“For the cab,” explains Liam. Harry stares at him, and Liam quirks a smile. “Kensington’s a pain, yeah? For your trouble.”

Liam’s not sure what makes him do it. It could be the hangover, or it could be the way this young man’s eyes are wide and bright, his curls reminding Liam of his own teenage mop of a decade ago. It doesn’t _really_ matter what makes him do it, in the end. All that matters is that he puts his hand on the small of Harry’s back and the flash of heat at the touch tells him everything.

“Have a good day, Harry,” Liam farewells as he ushers him out the door, cringing at the way he can’t get the formality out of his tone but realising it’s probably for the best, “Good luck with your article.”

“Right,” Harry answers, a little wooden. Liam tries not to flinch. “Okay. Yeah, thanks.”

Liam closes his door behind him, the frosted glass doing nothing to hide the way Harry doesn’t move from outside Liam’s office, head bowed. His hand is still in front of him, and it’s only the sound of Zayn dropping something with a swear that has him righting himself, dropping his clenched fist to his side and hesitating barely a moment before striding across the waiting area, jamming the button to the lifts. His blurry silhouette shifts restlessly before giving up altogether, forgoing the lifts and turning to hurry to the stairway, clumsiness gone as he flies down them, a fair few flights ahead of him.

Liam sighs, turning back to walk to and around his desk, sitting himself down in the most ergonomic, over-priced chair he’s ever had Zayn purchase on the company’s behalf.

He presses the relevant button on his desk’s touchscreen, and the wall separating his office from the waiting area and Zayn’s work station goes from frosted glass to clear, Zayn looking up at the change.

Liam dials through, frowning at Zayn from across the two rooms.

“Think you scared him off.” Liam tells him as soon as Zayn picks up. Zayn’s mouth twists trying to avoid a smile, and he shakes his head.

“I don’t scare anyone, Liam,” Zayn replies, and Liam can hear the smirk in his voice, even if he’s a little blurry across the way, “If anything, I’d say you were too much for him.”

Liam tries not to wince, just chuckles lightly.

“Of course,” Liam counters, running a hand through his hair, “If he can’t handle a five minute interview, he certainly can’t handle an hour.”

Zayn hums, and Liam ignores the knowing lilt it holds in favour of asking Zayn about any updates to his calendar.

He can’t quite get it out of his head, however.

The interview wasn’t anything. It’s just that last minute there, at the door. Harry’s face, his eyes boring into Liam’s in confusion. Green and wide, Liam gets flashes of them looking like that for a different reason in his weaker moments; sitting with his CFO and going through accounts, or listening to his producers run him through the latest talent finds. He gets home late one night, apologising to Watson, only to think of Harry’s curls as he’s in the shower, wondering if they’d look that tad bit auburn under the spray, wet and in ringlets.

“ _Fuck._ ” he bites out, spurting across the tile walls of his bathroom. The water gets rid of most of it, but he wipes the last remnants away with swipes of his hand in his post-orgasmic shame; pushing away thoughts of Harry’s ringed fingers circling the cast-iron headboard of Liam’s king size bed, of Harry’s pale skin flushed with red not just in his cheeks, of the slide of Harry’s palm against Liam’s own in that office.

He spends the whole of Friday with Harry’s dimpled smile imprinted on the backs of his eyelids, of his change from charming to determined ringing in his ears. His meetings are a mess, and usually he’d stay later to make up for it but he finds himself at six o’clock taking his mobile from his pocket and staring at the slip of paper with _Harry Styles_ and a phone number beneath it in Zayn’s hand-writing. He’d smirked at Liam’s request, but Liam doesn’t pay him to make comments so he’d stayed silent, simply told him that Harry had said Mondays and Tuesdays weren’t good for him.

He rings up closer to seven than six, tapping his fingers on his desk to the beat of a newer single, yet to be released. His suit feels constricting, overly formal, now that he’s on his personal phone about to call a university student for – well, for an interview, Liam supposes. Though that’s not what it feels like, not at all.

“Sorry!” Harry’s breathless voice picks up the phone, and Liam can hear loud, cheerful voices in the background. “Sorry, sorry, this is Harry.”

Liam tries not to let his nerves seep through. “I’ve caught you at the wrong moment.” Harry’s breath catches, and Liam imagines he’s just stubbed a toe, or burnt a finger. “We can talk another time.”

“Mr. Payne?” Harry asks, and the voices get more distant. Then there’s the click of a lock, and everything in the background turns extremely muffled. “I wasn’t expecting you to call.” 

“Yes,” Liam tries to begin, though no words seem to follow instinctively like he’d hoped they would. “Well, I suppose I hadn’t planned it.”

“Oh.” Harry replies, and Liam closes his eyes, taking a short moment to quietly curse himself.

“I thought perhaps you might want a slightly longer interview,” Liam tries again, making his voice a little lighter, a little more casual, “After all, five minutes is hardly enough for a feature article.”

“A longer interview?” Harry asks, and he’s still breathless it seems, tone airy and slightly absent. “I suppose I hadn’t planned it.”

Liam laughs, unable to stop the crinkles by his eyes, wondering how Harry Styles manages to get away with anything, it seems.

“Cheeky,” Liam comments, ignoring his body’s response to Harry’s chuckle, “Zayn said Monday and Tuesday were no good,” A stray thought crosses his mind, so ludicrous he almost lets it slip by. But Liam’s always been unable to resist temptation, so it tumbles from his lips instead. “I’ve got tomorrow morning free, if that’s suitable.” 

There’s a pause. 

“Won’t the office be closed?” Harry asks, and there’s a frown in his voice, “I can shift some things around next week, maybe. Fit you in for a half hour between classes.”

“We don’t have to go to the office.” Liam says, and doesn’t really know what he’s saying at all. “My flat is perfectly suitable. Or I suppose a restaurant might do, though you’ll have to leave that to me.” Liam’s notoriety goes unmentioned – ringing up places with the facilities to deal with the curious eyes that follow him is about the only option he has these days. Harry wouldn’t think to do that, in all likelihood. 

“Restaurant,” Harry blurts out, and Liam ignores the frown that wants to overtake his own face, “A restaurant is perfectly fine, actually.”

“Alright,” Liam acquiesces, wondering how he’s going to be able to look at Harry from across a table in a way that won’t scare him off, “Let me work out the details. I’ll send through the address and time once I’ve booked.”

“Booked?” Harry echoes.

“Yes, well. Arrangements to be made.” If the silence he receives in return is anything to go by, Harry’s got no clue about the arrangements that are to be made. Liam clears his throat, trying not to think of how Harry will write about him now, knowing he has to book private booths at fancier places just to eat out these days. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.” Harry repeats, and Liam rings off before he can admit something embarrassing, like how he can’t exactly wait for tomorrow to arrive.

He spends the rest of the evening watching subpar telly with Watson, the booking confirmation sitting heavily in his e-mail inbox. Harry hadn’t replied to his text, but he’s read it, and Liam wants to send more to become more familiar with how Harry might communicate that way – but he can’t. _This is strictly professional,_ he tells himself as he drifts off to sleep around eleven.

 _Strictly professional. A business meeting._ He convinces himself as he enters the hotel lobby, adjusting his pinstriped suit and nodding at Sandra at reception, making his way to the dining room. Francis greets him at the door.

“Mr. Payne, it’s been a while.” His black hair is all but completely shaved off his head, and Liam misses it suddenly.

“Yes, terribly sorry,” Liam apologises as Francis leads him to his booth, trying not to think of the last time he came here that wasn’t with his producers or CFO, “Work has been piling up, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed, Mr. Payne. Your guest arrived fifteen minutes ago,” Francis’s face turns a little stonier, though that doesn’t say much – he’s a largely impassive person all around. “Did you not brief him on the attire, Mr. Payne?”

“What do you mean?” Liam questions, but in that moment they round the corner and the booth comes into view. Harry’s tapping out something on his phone rapidly with one hand and fiddling with the silverware with the other. He’s got a beanie on his head, something soft and blue. It’s getting warmer, but it’s still London. Liam’s got his long coat and scarf thrown over his own arm. Harry’s is scrunched up next to him on the seat, his jumper looking too thin and very old. Liam glimpses battered boots underneath the table just before Harry looks up.

“Harry,” Liam greets, and hesitates barely a second before shoving his hand forward over the table, palm open. Harry moves as if to get up as they shake hands, and Liam waves him back down. “Don’t worry yourself with that. Have you ordered? Sorry, I didn’t realise I was late.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says quietly, and Liam tries not to linger on the way he won’t exactly look Liam completely in the eyes. “I’m probably early.”

Liam hums, pouring the two of them some water from the pitcher on the table. Francis lingers close by, and Liam knows he’s waiting for Harry to pick something before he approaches.

Liam peruses his own menu in politeness, trying to ignore the way Harry’s phone seems to be blowing up, texts coming in left and right.

“Is this a bad time, Harry?” Liam asks, frowning. Now that he has his menu as a camouflage for his stares, he can see the way Harry’s lips are a little paler than usual, dark circles underneath his eyes stark against his lighter skin. He looks tired. “We can reschedule.”

“No,” Harry says firmly, turning his phone over so the screen isn’t flashing every second, “I’m sorry, I–” He frowns, looking up from his flowery phone case to look at Liam. “I wasn’t expecting it to be empty, exactly.

“Oh,” Liam sighs out in relief, “Right. Well it’s simple enough – the restaurant’s usually closed on Saturdays, but Francis always lets me have breakfast if need be. Thought it might be the perfect time for an interview, all this quiet.”

“And you let that happen?” Harry asks, eyes darting around Liam’s face. Liam sends him a quizzical smile – Liam doesn’t ‘let’ anyone do anything.

“It’s not really up to me,” he explains, trying to figure out the way Harry’s jaw tightens, “It was a mistake the first time, and then Francis insisted.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he closes his menu so Francis comes over, looking at him expectantly. 

“The, err, wholemeal toast, please.” Harry says, licking his lips as if he struggled to get that out.

“Just toast?” Liam prods him, frowning, “That’s nowhere near enough. First meal of the day, breakfast is. You’ll need more than toast.”

“It’s fine,” Harry replies, giving Liam a small, polite smile, “I ate a bit before I arrived.”

Liam searches his face, sees the way his shoulders are a little hunched, how he’s playing with a ring on his thumb nervously.

“You’re my guest, Harry,” Liam tells him, gently prying the menu from Harry’s hands and passing them over to Francis. “We’ll take the buffet for two, Francis, thank you.”

“Mr. Payne, I–” 

“It’s Liam, Harry. If you’re to be interviewing me, then we best be on a first name basis.”

“Liam,” Harry sighs out, exasperated. He pushes a curl back underneath his beanie, “I can’t exactly... well, _afford,_ something like that.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Liam says, smiling, “I’ll cover this, my treat. Besides,” he adds as Harry’s mouth opens to comment once more, “You won’t regret their buffet, trust me. It’s wonderful.” 

He thinks he hears Harry mumble “That’s not the point,” underneath his breath, but chooses not to respond to it – it’s the point, definitely. Liam won’t have Harry, who’s likely struggling financially as a university student, go hungry simply because of something as silly as propriety. Completely innocent, this whole thing is. Liam would do this for anyone.

“And how is Fleur, Francis?” Liam asks him upon his return with juice and some scones and jam, Harry biting at his lip.

Francis gives him a smile, something rare and coveted by Liam, who sends him a grin in return.

“She’s brilliant, Mr. Payne. Just started year one. She misses you.”

Liam’s grin gets wider – impossible not to at the thought of Fleur, her gap-toothed smile and her black, bountiful curls filling anyone with an infectious joy.

“I’ll visit soon, I promise. She’s been spoiled.”

Francis’ smile dims a little, but he nods anyway. “She was, Mr. Payne. I tell her every day, but she still insists you come to her football matches.” 

“I’ll come to the next one,” Liam promises, already figuring out a way to move around his meetings and appointments to fit in a game of Under 7’s football on a Sunday. “Cheer her on so loud she won’t want me there next time.”

“Unlikely, Mr. Payne, but you can try.”

When Francis leaves to place their order, Liam turns back to Harry with a smile, though it falters a bit at his frown.

“Something wrong?”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head slowly as if to rid it of cobwebs, curls flinging about though they seem lank, desperate for attention. “I’ve got the questions here.” He pulls out a notepad from underneath his coat, pen in the binder like it had been on Thursday. He pauses, eyes flicking to Liam before he turns his phone back over, ignoring the notifications to unlock it and open up the Voice Memos app. “I was hoping to record it, as well, if you’d allow it.” 

“You can do what you want, Harry.” Liam tells him, though takes note that he’ll have to hold off on anything too friendly whilst the tape’s on. The last thing he needs is something like this getting out, no matter how subtle, no matter if nothing happens. The context alone is more than enough to bring him into question, and Liam realises suddenly that he hasn’t exactly thought this all the way through.

What was he expecting, exactly? That Harry would have breakfast with him and want into his bed? Fall in love, even? Liam keeps his pleasant smile on his face but feels the sweat form at the nape of his neck; in his armpits and therefore hidden by his suit jacket. It’s rather preposterous, now that Liam allows himself to realise it. Here he is, thirty-two years old, and hoping for Harry to notice him. Like they’re both in pre-school and he’s tugging on Harry’s pigtails or something like that. 

Liam might want to pull on Harry’s curls, but definitely not in a way that’ll simply have him scolded and sent to time out.

“That’s a long list.” Liam comments, eyebrows raised, as Harry flips open his notebook.

“Stayed up most of the night writing it up.” Harry says, huffing out a laugh. The dark circles make sense now, and Liam wishes Harry had told him to plan breakfast to be more like brunch. Nine o’clock on a Saturday morning is probably not forgiving for most university students. “You’re an interesting person in Google’s eyes.” 

“Am I?” Liam laughs, taking a scone to cover in jam and cream, plopping it on Harry’s plate before he can protest. He grabs another for himself to do the same. “Google is, of course, a reliable source. As is Wikipedia, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

Harry cracks a smile, and the hunch to his shoulders straightens a little.

“Wikipedia is a uni student’s best friend, Liam.” Harry retorts, and his smile widens, his eyes getting warmer.

“Silly me, of course. How would I know?” Liam shrugs. He takes a large bite of his scone, washing it down with some juice before continuing. “Didn’t ever go to uni, did I?” 

“So that’s true, at least?” Harry asks, jotting down something through a mouthful of scone.

“Wasn’t much time, I’m afraid,” Liam tells him, pushing down most of the before. “Got rather stuck in this, and then I had more knowledge than university could give me.” He pauses, surveys Harry’s looping ‘L’s, the way he looks up from paper with clear eyes, mouth slightly parted now that he’s swallowed his food. Liam jerks his eyes back up, gives a quick smile. “Well, there are some things, at least, that I’m not sure can be learnt in a classroom.”

Harry quirks up his lips into a crooked smile, something Liam wasn’t sure was possible outside of novels. “I’ve heard you’re not so much a speller.”

“Oh, absolutely horrendous.” Liam confirms, thanking Francis as he sets down a share plate of bacon and eggs, toast on the side with some mushrooms and tomatoes.

“I’m rather stupendous myself.” Harry says, lips forming an actual smile this time, something with a bit of a teasing edge. Liam’s own widens, his eyes scrunching up like they do.

“Better than being atrocious at any rate.”

Harry’s eyes narrow playfully, smile still on his pink, cupid’s bow lips. “Definitely. A _ferocious_ speller, I am.”

Liam huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?”

Harry throws his head back, emitting a bark of laughter so loud his head snaps forward, eyes wide as he covers his mouth with his forearm, pen still in hand. Liam can’t help but laugh also, devouring the charm of Harry’s dimples and the slightest pink of his cheeks. 

“Don’t hide,” Liam chides softly, reaching out to pull Harry’s arm from his face with a kind smile, “It’s good to laugh.”

“ _I love... to laugh!_ ” Harry sings, and Liam grins. His companion’s eyes glitter in mirth, innocent in their joy. Liam’s fascinated by the way Harry seems so free of worry, so open with his feelings. It’s refreshing, especially when Liam comes from a company that does everything to dampen that quality in anyone.

Harry’s eyes drift down to Liam’s hand, which still rests on his forearm. Liam follows, and pulls back his arm as subtly as possible, rubbing the back of his neck with a chuckle, trying not to think about the fact that touching Harry like that – just the tiniest bit possessive, just a tad too familiar – felt so natural, so normal.

“What else?” Liam blurts out, shoving some eggs into his mouth. Harry jumps slightly, throwing Liam a confused look. “What else do you love to laugh about, I mean.”

Liam sees Harry look down at his notepad quickly, barely touched, before returning his gaze to Liam. He scratches at his wrist, and Liam peeks the tattoos again, soft against his skin like they’ve been there for a while.

“Lots of things. Bit hard to list ‘em all.” He replies, and picks up a piece of bacon without his cutlery, cracking off a bit and plopping it into his mouth.

“Tell me,” urges Liam, voice gone quiet in the silence of the room, which suddenly feels emptier than it had a minute ago. Liam’s so thankful, in that moment, that Francis had insisted he come in on a Saturday. He’s not so sure he would’ve dealt very well with people peering at them over a divider, wondering why Liam Payne was laughing so long and hard at tales of getting drunk to _Bake Off_ and asking a neighbour for flour at four in the morning. 

He’s not sure how long it’s been by the time Francis asks if they’d like refills of their tea. Harry declines, and Liam would usually take another but he glimpses the time and realises just how late it is – he’s been here three times as long as he anticipated, the cadence of Harry’s voice both soothing and entrancing in equal measure.

“Damn,” Liam mumbles, “I’ve got to go.” He says, loud enough for Harry to hear him. He looks up to see Harry staring at him over the rim of his teacup, beanie a little uneven on his head; no doubt as a result of Harry’s wild gesturing throughout his stories. Harry keeps staring at him as Liam rises from his chair, grabbing his coat and pulling it over his shoulders. Without thinking, he reaches for his wallet, this time sliding a hundred quid over to Harry. The younger man looks down at it, and Liam sees him open his mouth to protest or something equally absurd, and so beats him to it. 

“It’s a long way back to Peckham.” Liam acknowledges, and he absently reaches out, aborting the movement at the last possible moment when he catches himself. His fingers barely graze the side of Harry’s neck instead of his sharp jaw, and Harry looks up at Liam from his seat as his hand drops to his side, fingertips tingling. Liam lets himself feel it for a moment before he continues, making sure to keep his eyes from Harry’s lips, newly moist. “I’m not sure how helpful I was,” He flits his eyes over to Harry’s almost blank first page, then back to him, “If you need more, give me a ring.” _God, this is dangerous._ “Goodbye, Harry.”

When Liam looks over his shoulder before the booth goes out of sight, he sees Harry in the same position, with an added soft touch to his own neck, a barely there frown on his face.

Liam swivels his head back around to in front of him, pretending not to notice the stuttering thump of his heart.

 _Strictly professional,_ he tells himself as he hops into a cab to head back to the office. _Business only._

He’s fooling no one.

 

***

 

_You didn’t let me pay._

Liam smiles down at the text the next day, tapping out a reply.

_my treat. told youuuu._

“Liam,” Fleur groans, long and high, “You’re not paying attention.”

_Who knew Liam Payne texted like a teenager? Are you sure you’re in your thirties?_

_absolutly. grey hairs dont lie_

Liam pockets his phone, smiling.

“Sorry, love. Of course, I’m listening. _Male_ seahorses give birth to their young? _Really?_ ” He pulls a face, nudging under her chin. “Are you sure? You’re not telling fibs again, are you?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” Fleur tells him, eyebrows furrowed dramatically, “I’m not a liar!”

Liam gasps, holding a hand to his chest, loving the way Fleur is trying to keep a straight face, though her mouth is twitching, ready to burst into a smile.

“I would never, Fleur Lisette!” He cries, and Fleur bursts into giggles.

“Moreau?” Someone calls out, and they both look up. Doctor Jameson has a smile on her face, and Fleur hops off her chair, black braids swinging. She grabs Liam’s hand, pulling him along behind her.

“Everything is perfectly normal, Mr. Payne,” Jameson tells him by the end of the appointment, Fleur enjoying a lollipop, “No abnormalities. Her blood work has come back and she’s even better than last month.”

Liam looks over at her, gives her a smile when she gives him one, and turns back. “You’re sure? Vi was worried.”

“Understandably, given her history,” Jameson says, and her face is kind, almost relieved that she doesn’t have to be the bearer of bad news, “But Fleur is showing a remarkable recovery.” 

“Good,” Liam breathes, grinning, “That’s brilliant.”

“She’s got another appointment at the hospital with her new specialist next week,” Jameson explains, handing him the appointment slip, “Just to double check everything more thoroughly, but there’s nothing to be overly worried about as far as I’m concerned.”

He drops off Fleur back with Vi, who thanks him from behind her laptop screen, mountains of paperwork beside her. Sundays are his days off, so Liam gets a head start on his workout, pushing through five miles in and around Hyde Park before heading back to pick up Watson and doing another five, his massive dog panting in the cold January air. 

He wastes the rest of the day alternating between contemplating whether or not he should text Harry again, and playing video games. He rarely has time for it anymore, but work has been a little slower lately so he’s been having Sundays off, and Liam’s never been much of a reader apart from _Harry Potter._

His contemplation ends around dinner time when Liam’s just sitting down with a beer to watch some football; an old game saved to his DVR by the looks of it. His phone buzzes, and Liam opens up the notification and smiles before he’s even finished reading.

_Dunno about that. Might have to take a closer look, confirm you’re really that old. How’s this Thursday sound? Whatever time suits you._

Thursday seems both too soon and too far away. Liam knows work will make it seem like a mere minute between now and Thursday, but at the same time when Liam’s overcome with something, time drags and lags like it’s a particularly bad computer game. 

Is this even something he should be doing? Liam’s learnt by now to separate his wants and his needs, and Harry is a want right now – a big, fat, terrifying want. But a want, nonetheless. It’s not even like he knows it, either. Though Liam thinks of frozen expressions at The Rib Room, of hands on forearms, of dimples so deep it’s like they’ve been engraved there, permanent and wonderful – and he wonders if Harry even realises that it’s a possibility, or whether he thinks Liam is just overly affectionate.

 _Unlikely,_ Liam thinks to himself, thumbs hovering over his phone screen, _Probably thinks I’m buying him or something. Daft to give him that hundred quid._

Sighing, Liam leans his head back until he’s looking at his ceiling, the dimmed lights bright enough to make him squint.

His phone pings again, and Liam looks down to see the notification, unlocking his phone once more and reading greedily.

 _My treat this time. No excuses._  

Liam’s stomach squirms with something unnameable, and he taps out a reply before he can even think. 

 _alrite,_ he’s said, knowing it was wrong but not bothering to fix it in his hurry, _somewhere near u then. central londons too far for peckham._  

Harry sends an address, and then another text on top of that. 

_My address, since you asked so nicely, Liam. Thursday at eight, please. :)_

Liam throws his phone away, palms clammy.

 _Professional,_ he repeats to himself as he shoves some stir fry onto his fork, commentators brash in the quiet of his living room. _He’s going to interview you. He’s a_ student, _you’re a bloody businessman. He’s so young, get a hold of yourself._

Nothing he tells himself works, and when he lies in bed that night, his phone silent and his room dark, Liam falls asleep to the thought of touching that jaw again, this time grazing against it a little harder, maybe digging a nail in and watching Harry’s mouth open on a gasp.

The next day’s not much better, with Zayn shooting him unimpressed looks after catching him on his phone in a meeting for the third or so time.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Zayn says once their client and her entourage leaves, the two of them left alone in the conference room. “Who’re you texting, then?”

Liam scrambles for plausibility.

“S’just Vi. Fleur’s got an award at school–”

“Unless you’re fucking Violet, somehow I think you’re lying.” Zayn says, deadpan. Liam chokes on nothing, spluttering in his haste to deny it. But one look at his assistant’s face and he deflates, resting his head on the glass table top with a groan, mumbling so low he hopes Zayn forgets this conversation and just leaves.

“ _Allah,_ ” Zayn sighs, perching himself on the table, “It can’t be that bad, Liam. Spit it out, yeah?”

“Harry,” Liam says loudly, picking his head off the table and looking up at Zayn miserably, “I’ve been texting Harry.” 

“You mean that uni student?” Zayn prods, quirking an eyebrow. “Bit young, babe.”

“Don’t start,” Liam nearly snaps, softening his face as Zayn’s left eyebrow joins his right. “Sorry, it’s just a bit stressful.”

Zayn is quiet for a moment, eyes roving over Liam’s defeated shoulders and pathetic pout before he rolls his eyes.

“It’s been five years, Liam. Give yourself some credit, will you? You’re more confident now, and you’re not a complete dickhead.”

“Thanks.” Liam interjects sarcastically.

“Sophia was rotten, alright? We’ve established that.” Liam looks away, past Zayn to the whiteboard with sales numbers and all that crap he really, honestly sort of despises. “This Harry bloke can’t be too bad. He’s at uni, he’s got to be smart. Bit young,” Zayn adds quickly, shooting Liam a sharp look, “So be careful, yeah? He’s writing this article, and who knows what he might print.”

“It’s not like that,” insists Liam, tone hard, “He’s not like that.” 

“You barely know him.” Zayn points out, and Liam tries not to feel hurt at that truth, “Just don’t think with your dick.”

“But it’s so _hard._ ” Liam whines, grinning at the double entendre and barely feeling the punch Zayn gives his arm, glare fierce.

The rest of the day is easier to manage, even if his phone seems to be burning a hole in his slacks pocket. He wrestles with himself in the interim – how’s he to act on Thursday? He’ll be going to Harry’s place, but it’s not casual, is it? Harry’s to interview him for a bloody feature article, his final project at Birkbeck. It’s hard to figure out exactly what Harry’s expecting, let alone what _Liam’s_ expecting. Getting ahead of himself was always his problem in his twenties, and now that he’s left them it feels foolish to fall into that trap again. Wouldn’t it be better if he stopped this altogether? Just text Harry with his cancellation and change his mobile number?

It feels like it’d be easier, but there’s a part of Liam that knows it’s not going to fix anything. He’s stagnant, stuck in one place. Maybe Harry is the change he needs, romantic or not. Maybe this article will be the fresh start, a way to establish himself again past _Liam Payne, Orphan._  

Liam sighs, staring into the mirror. He was right, initially – Thursday was too close, and now he’s stood in his closet, wondering whether he should’ve kept his suit on, maintained the professional air.

 _But Harry doesn’t want you professional,_ a voice pipes up, and Liam can’t even tell if it’s on his side anymore, _he wants the_ real _you. Someone more interesting than the CEO of a record label. He said so himself._

He scowls into the mirror, abandoning his curly hair and deciding to let the gel do its work. His navy button-down already looks too crinkled – he certainly wouldn’t wear this to any other business meeting – but upon glimpsing his watch he realises it’s too late now. It’s getting closer to seven thirty than he’d like, and it’ll take him a half hour to drive to Peckham at the very least.

When he pulls up to the address at five to eight, it’s rather what he expected. The flats aren’t awful by any means – Harry’s got two jobs, after all, and Liam knows he shares with two others – but they’re a little run down; in need of a good refurbishment, probably. When Liam knocks on the door to number fifteen, a bright red, his expectations go out the window – for it’s not Harry who answers, but a shorter, much blonder bloke who raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah?” He asks, and Liam tries not to swallow so obviously.

“This is Harry’s place?” He asks, scratching his stubbled jaw in nervousness, cursing his choice of black slacks over jeans.

The blond’s eyes widen slightly, and his mouth drops open.

“Thought he was lyin’, Jesus.” He breathes, looking Liam up and down. “Liam Payne, in the flesh before me.”

“Right.” Liam says weakly, wondering just how much he’s cocked this up, thought tonight was something entirely different than a one-on-one interview.

“Niall, get out of the bloody way,” Harry grumbles, and then Niall’s shoved to the side, Harry in jeans and a holey t-shirt before him. He grins, and his hair’s in a bun at the base of his neck, tendrils falling in his face. Liam tries not to stare. “Sorry ‘bout him,” Harry looks over his shoulder, faux glaring at his retreating friend, “He’s got no manners.”

“S’alright, really,” Liam says, and he wonders when his accent got so lax – retraining himself to speak a bit better seems to fall right by the wayside with Harry, whose Northern tones set Liam right off. “Feel like I’ve overdressed.”

Harry ushers his him, shaking his head. “No, you’re fine, Liam. Here, sit.” He pushes Liam’s shoulders down once they reach an awfully old and awfully stained dining table. “Dinner’s about done. Hope you like curry.”

Liam’s only ever had Zayn’s curry, and he’s convinced no one else can beat it so he just smiles, nods politely. Harry rushes back into the kitchen, chewing on his bottom lip, so Liam takes the time to look around – it about matches the outside, really. The yellowish walls have odd pieces of discount framed artwork hanging from them, and the telly looks like something someone picked up off the curb. The couch seems a little better, with an array of blankets thrown over the top. He can’t much see the kitchen, only that it has some kind of garish linoleum floor, and that he can definitely smell that curry now. Down the hallway are probably the three bedrooms, and hopefully a bathroom. Not too big, not too small, but in desperate need of a clean and a coat of paint.

Typically uni student, Liam imagines. Not like he’d really know, of course.

“Right!” Harry announces, and Liam imagines him with his hands on his hips, triumphant, “Coming!”

“You really didn’t have to do this,” Liam tells him as he sets a steaming pot in the centre of the table, no placemat to be found. He suspects this is where all the marks and scratches have come from, but hasn’t the effort to care much. “It’s just an interview.”

“I know,” Harry says, passing Liam a plate, averting his eyes, “But you’re bound to be starving, and I said it was my treat.”

“None of that matters, Harry.” Liam says, pouring the two of them some water from the plastic bottle that Harry puts on the table. It looks a little battered, like they’ve kept it around and refilled it for a while.

Harry mutters something, but Liam’s too busy piling a portion onto Harry’s plate to notice, raising his eyebrows at the host until he sits down, pushing a stray curl behind his ear.

“Fuck, that looks good.” Niall says, and Liam turns to see him walk out into the main area, back over his shoulder. “Save some for me, Haz. Love your curries.”

“Work?” Harry asks as Liam scoops some brown rice onto his meal.

“Finish at four, don’t wait up.” Niall calls over his shoulder. 

“No one ever does!” Harry replies, lifted up out of his seat as if that’ll make his voice go further. There’s no response but the slam of the front door, and Harry suddenly seems to realise who he’s with and where he is, because he smiles something small, his cheeks going pink. 

“Sorry, bit of a habit.”

“S’alright,” Liam says softly, unable to help the quirk of his lips into a smile, watching the way Harry fiddles with his fork a moment before diving in.

“This is good.” Liam tells him a minute or so in, trying not to shove it all into his mouth at once – Harry was right, he’s pretty starving.

Harry dimples at him through his mouthful, swallowing before choosing to speak, fork hanging from his fingers. “You sound surprised.”

“I am,” Liam tells him, laughing when Harry frowns, “Not many uni students can cook for themselves, babe.”

Harry’s cheeks lift up even higher with his grin, and Liam coughs to rid his throat of something stuck there – he’s just made this... not professional, hasn’t he? _Fuck._

“So, err,” Liam hurries to say, trying to change the subject, “The questions?”

Harry’s grin fades, and he pushes a ringed hand through his curls. “Right, the questions. Hold on.”

He gets up from his chair, meal half-eaten, to hop over to the couch. There’s a coffee table, just as battered as the table Liam’s eating at, that he didn’t notice before. Harry picks up his notepad from there, walking back over. He’s barefoot, of all things – which makes something in Liam go all warm; like he’s back up in Wolverhampton, Christmas presents under the tree.

He shoves the thought away, smiling at Harry encouragingly when he clears his throat. His dinner is pushed to the side as he reads off paper, which has about half a page full of ink already.

“Well, I suppose I should ask you about what you were doing before you took over the label?” Harry asks, and Liam tries not to white-knuckle his fork too much, “The most I could find was that you were working at a grocery, of all places.”

“I did work at a Tesco’s,” Liam admits, and Harry breaks into a smile, eyes wide with amusement, “But I was a teenager then.”

Harry’s face falls a little, and he scribbles a few things down. Liam looks at the crown of his head and wonders why he’s letting this happen, but then figures Harry’s going to get it out of him one way or another, so he may as well do it before he gets hurt.

“I was about to sign with a label, actually.” Liam divulges, and Harry looks up, tongue poking between his teeth. Liam sets down his fork, turning his head to stare at the dish of curry that’s off to the side than into Harry’s inquisitive eyes. “Thing was, it wasn’t Payne Records.”

Harry’s scribbling starts up again, and Liam looks back to see him writing frantically, brows furrowed.

“You sang?” Harry asks, and he’s shifted forward, intent on getting everything out of this line of questioning. 

“Yeah, I sang.” Liam tells him, twisting his mouth into something unidentifiable in thought, moving his rice about his plate absently. “Was decent, I suppose. Decent enough for another label to want me. They were small, though. But I liked the way they did things, how they operated. Do you sing?” He tacks on the end, waiting for Harry to catch his eyes again, for the scribbling to cease. 

“Me?” asks Harry, looking up, hair a little dishevelled. “In the shower, maybe.” He pauses, bringing a hand up to take his bottom lip between thumb and finger, pen resting between index and middle. “I fancied myself a performer, back in the day, but–” He smiles, though it’s a little wry, “Uni seemed... I dunno. Safer. Less scary.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who’d be scared of anything.” Liam observes, and Harry barks out a laugh, though he doesn’t sound amused.

“Going it alone never much appealed to me, I guess,” He sounds wistful, like maybe a group had been within his reach, “At least, back then anyway. I’m happy with writing, besides.” He drops his hand, pen falling to the table as he crosses his arms. He picks up his fork, plays with his food. It’s probably a little cold by now, but Harry takes a mouthful anyway. “There’s something almost too raw about vocalising your thoughts.” His eyes flick to Liam before going back to his food. “Writing doesn’t seem so personal.”

“If you’re writing about someone else, then you’re probably right.” Liam agrees, leaning his chin on his right palm, gazing evenly at Harry. He seems vulnerable all of a sudden – like he never meant to admit those things at a dining room table. 

“Even then,” Harry says, looking up, “Sometimes.”

His eyes look especially green in the dim room, the lighting poor in the flat. Liam hums, lingering a moment before standing, picking up his empty plate and cutlery and reaching out for Harry’s. 

“Finished?”

Harry stands as well, taking his own plate. “You don’t have to clear up,” he says as Liam collects their glasses, “I’m the host.”

“Just being polite, Harry.” Liam tells him, smiling over his shoulder as he makes his way into the kitchen... the very olive-green kitchen, the cupboards looking sturdy but like someone might’ve just vomited all over them. 

“Love the colour scheme.” Liam jibes playfully as Harry enters, plate and curry dish in hand. 

“Excuse me, Liam,” Harry replies, faux offended, “I think it’s quaint.”

Liam snorts, putting away their things on the counter and plugging the sink, opening up the cupboards underneath to search for liquid detergent.

“Stop that.” Harry says, yanking Liam’s hands from the cupboard. “Don’t be an idiot, go sit down.”

“Group effort,” Liam explains, grabbing for the detergent again and turning on the tap, making sure it’s piping hot, “It’ll get done faster, won’t it?”

Harry grumbles, but Liam doesn’t miss the thoughtful look he shoots him, like Liam’s some kind of grand enigma waiting to be cracked, the World War saved.

They’re surprisingly quiet as they do the dishes, the purple gloves looking positively smashing against the green backdrop when Liam holds them up, suds dripping onto his shirt.

“You’re getting water everywhere.” Harry tells him, pursing his lips and fighting off a smile.

Liam shrugs, passing over the last of it before unplugging the sink, hearing the water drain away with a squeal. He de-gloves himself and opens his mouth to ask what else Harry wants to ask him before a cool hand touches his right forearm, his sleeves rolled up to wash.

“I didn’t see them before,” Harry remarks, grip light as he turns over Liam’s arm. The tattoos seem starker in the fluorescent light of the kitchen, and Harry looks at him, curls falling against his cheeks. His bun’s incredibly loose. “Never thought you might have some.”

“No?” Liam asks, maybe breathing a little heavier than usual as Harry’s fingertips brush over _Everything I wanted but nothing I’ll ever need._ “I was young once.”

“Really?” Harry quips, grinning at Liam, “Thought you’d been old forever.”

“Shut it.” Liam tells him with a smile and a shake of his head, pulling his arm away and rolling his sleeves back down. “Yours aren’t much to write home about.”

Harry’s mouth drops open slightly.

“I’m kidding.” Liam deadpans, fighting off a smile. 

“You’re an arse.” Harry accuses, turning away to walk out of the kitchen.

“And now you can write that in your article.” Liam tells him as he follows behind, settling down on the couch with Harry, who’s brought over his notepad. Liam tries not to look – it serves both as a temptation and a reminder, and he really needs to stop bloody flirting, because even if Harry’s reciprocating, this is still an interview. This is still something that Harry could write about in his article; that Liam flirted with him the whole time, insatiable, a sex addict–

 _Okay, stop._ He tells himself, rubbing a hand over his face, suddenly tired. When he blinks his eyes back open, Harry hasn’t picked up the notepad again, pen lying abandoned on the coffee table.

_Right. Reassess._

“You’re done?” Liam questions, frowning at Harry. The younger man freezes, half-way to leaning back into the couch. Liam doesn’t want to mention it – would be rather happy to sit on Harry’s couch and talk with him, maybe interrogate him like Harry’s been trying to do to Liam. But it’s probably best, he realises, that he give them space. The more comfortable he gets, the more slip ups he’ll make – and the more slip ups he’ll make, the more forward Harry might become. Liam’s stronger now, more confident like Zayn said – but he’s not a robot. He can’t sit here and take escalating behaviour. His will isn’t strong enough. 

“Suppose I ought to, err... go, then.” He blurts out, rising from the couch. Harry rises too, seemingly too surprised to say much as Liam makes his way to the door.

 _This is for the best,_ he thinks. _Definitely for the best. Keep it business._

“Thanks,” says Liam, turning around in the open doorway to face Harry. He’s playing with the rings on his fingers, gazing at Liam. “For the curry. Maybe you should go on _Bake Off._ ”

“With curry?” Harry asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Well... no.” Liam answers, and it’s almost like he doesn’t even know how to speak anymore – like the declaration that the interview was over meant talking to Harry became the Herculean task it never was when it was _business._

“I thought you were going?” Harry prods, flashing his dimples slowly.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” Liam stutters, inwardly cursing himself for the fact he’s turning into a blabbering teenager. “I’ll see you.”

“See you.” Harry says quietly, but Liam’s turned already, can’t see the expression on his face as he walks briskly through the hallways and to his car, hopping in and blasting the heating. Coats were nuisances, and Liam sort of thought he’d be right without one.

“You’re a bloody fool, Liam Payne.” he whispers to no one. Liam starts up his car, shivering just a little, and sets off for Kensington. His dog awaits.

 

***

 

Sunday sees him at Zayn and Perrie’s place, scoffing down actual curry and nearly crying at how spicy it is.

“How do you eat this?” Liam gasps, chugging down milk at Zayn’s insistence. Perrie just smirks, her blonde hair shining in the rare sunlight coming through their back windows. It’s a nice house, one that Liam’s likely paid for considering the amount he’s put into Zayn’s salary. Deserved, but exorbitant in his opinion. But everything at Payne Records is, he has to remind himself. At least Zayn benefits from it. 

“I can’t believe you ate a white boy’s curry, Liam,” Zayn scolds, shaking his head as he takes a bite. He looks much younger in a hoodie, even if he’s only four years younger than Liam. “You ate a white boy’s curry in the same week as mine. Have I taught you nothing?”

Liam’s too busy sculling more milk to reply, mouth on fire.

“ _Allah,_ ” Zayn groans, looking disgusted, “Have a kebab or something, you arse.”

He spends the rest of the lunch grabbing at all the good, homemade food he can get. Perrie serves a dessert she painstakingly laboured over, and Liam grins at her through his mouthful of pie, much to her displeasure.

“You need to come over more often,” she says as she licks the foam off of her teaspoon, cappuccino steaming in front of her, “You work too much.”

“Pez,” Zayn starts, and Liam glances a frown on his face before Perrie changes the subject.

“Please tell me you’re coming to the wedding,” she insists, blue eyes big and round, “I won’t have you slaving away in that skyscraper whilst I’m walking down the aisle.”

“Of course, I’m coming,” Liam defends himself, huffing a little, “I know I can be a bit much with work, sometimes, but it’s your _wedding._ ”

“Good,” Zayn says, surveying Liam from under his thick lashes, eyes tired, “We need to spruce it up a bit.” 

“ _Zayn!_ ” Perrie scolds, scowling, as Zayn smiles to himself. Liam looks between the two of them, fond. It’s been a while coming, this wedding – over a year now, and Liam knows Zayn’s been saving, wanting to spoil her. Liam offered a higher salary, of course, to compensate – but Zayn had rolled his eyes and said nothing so that was the end of that.

He’ll admit to himself that part of him had liked the long engagement – it’s nice to see Zayn so in love – but at the same time the mere thought of going to a wedding and witnessing all of that continuously for a whole day leaves Liam feeling emotionally drained. The last wedding he’d been to had been his sister’s, and he doesn’t think about that. Even the happy memories are clouded – left a little dull and dreary – with everything that’s happened.

It might be better, he muses as Zayn runs an absent hand through Perrie’s purple hair, if he were to actually take someone... but that would require dating, and Liam hasn’t really done that since Sophia – if you could call what they had dating, he thinks wryly. _He’d_ thought so, but– 

“What’s with the eyebrows?” Zayn’s tone snaps Liam out of it – curious but knowing.

“Nothing,” Liam rushes to say, wiping over his mouth with his right palm, shooting Zayn a smile when he notices the inquisitive look, “I’m fine, really.”

“Are you bringing anyone to the wedding?” Perrie asks, and Liam makes a point to pretend he doesn’t see Zayn’s pinch to her side. “What?” Perrie frowns, looking between her fiancée and Liam – well, he can’t exactly pretend anymore, “We’re his friends, we can talk about this.”

“Zayn just thinks I’m going to go off my rocker every time dating is mentioned,” Liam chuckles, trying not to dwell too hard on when that was a likely reaction, a few years ago now, “I don’t blame him, honestly.” 

“‘m just looking out for you, Liam,” Zayn mumbles, thumbing at his coffee mug. His hair falls into his face, and Liam has the absent thought that he might want to cut it for the wedding that’s a few months away – though maybe it’s a look he’s going for. It all sort of goes over Liam’s head, to be honest.

“I know,” Liam replies, smiling, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about me, alright? I’m happy to turn up by myself.”

“Doesn’t mean you should,” Liam hears Zayn mumble under his breath, though he thinks he wasn’t exactly meant to hear it.

Liam swallows thickly, wondering who on Earth Zayn expects Liam to bring. He’d make a joke about taking his assistant, but his assistant just so happens to be the _groom,_ so that’s out. Horribly, Liam’s mind drifts to Harry, of all people.

 _You truly are pathetic,_ a voice taunts him, _you barely know him._

But the thought of Harry, with his curls and his dimples, standing blushing in a suit as Liam whispers filth into his ear has Liam’s breath catching. It’s an image that he can’t help but admire, something caught in his throat he can’t name. Harry’s a vision, Liam knows. But does Harry? Liam thinks he might, but maybe he doesn’t realise that _Liam_ sees him that way. Liam knows he can come off a little cool, can sometimes be hard to read. Sophia used to– well, she’d thought totally different things about him than were true, so Liam knows he’s not always the most forthcoming with his thoughts and feelings to other people – especially people he’s romantically interested in.

Part of him knows he shouldn’t even be entertaining the thoughts, because Harry just wants to interview him, write his feature, and get on with his life. He’s young, he’s beautiful, and there’s so much more out there for him than a place beside Liam at galas and fundraisers; more for him than warming Liam’s bed, even if that’s not even skimming the top of what Liam would want.

It’s so dangerous, he thinks, to be following these thoughts. Harry doesn’t help, though – he texts him over the next week; inane sort of things. At first Liam thinks he has the wrong number – but it becomes clear that Harry is getting to know Liam by offering up his own information, by making it a give and take instead of the typical sort of interview one might have over text or e-mail.

 _Lou is killing me,_ Harry messages him on Monday, ‘Lou’ being one of his roommates. _He’s got a lovely voice, but singing Brand New at the top of his lungs isn’t helping me study._  

Liam laughs to himself in his office, but the fact that Harry _studies_ has him hesitating to reply. The age gap suddenly seems glaringly obvious, even if he’d been willing to joke about it with Harry before. 

 _Someone won’t stop crunching up paper at the library, Liam,_ Harry sends on Tuesday after a whole day of careful messaging (on Liam’s part) back and forth, comparing breakfasts and favourite foods. _How am I meant to focus on media law regulation?_

 _i dunno,_ Liam replies, ignoring Zayn’s sharp look from across the table as he takes notes in their midday meeting, _may b just stop studyin ?_

 _Coming from the bloke who can’t spell,_ Harry sends, following it up quickly with a poking tongue emoji, light-hearted and absolutely taking the piss.

 _r we onto emojis now_ Liam sends, smirking down at his phone, _2 can play that game_

“Liam,” one of his team says, and Liam snaps his head up, smile falling from his face, “What are your thoughts on this?” 

It’s not the only time he’s been caught out talking to Harry. Zayn shoots him looks throughout the rest of the week, and it’s only when Harry complains that he’s barely got any work done that Liam thinks of a solution to both of his problems.

 _Come to mine,_ he sends, his heart beating frantically in his chest and a thin layer of sweat forming at the nape of his neck. He rubs his eyes under his glasses before he continues, _piece and quiet yeah?_ He taps in the address, and then follows it up with a smattering of irrelevant emojis, finishing with _mayb i can help_  

It’s a Thursday, and it only hits Liam about an hour later, when Harry replies with a short affirmative, that he’s just invited Harry over to his flat. His _penthouse_ flat, but his flat, nonetheless.

“Shit,” Liam utters, shuffling some papers on his desk as a distraction. He’s got a conference call in ten minutes, but he can’t get this out of his head – Harry’s about to come over and study in Liam’s home, where Watson will bother him and Liam will try to cook and _fail_ and maybe he’s way in over his head, here, because it’s all of a sudden looking desperate.

He leaves the office early so he doesn’t think about it too much – well, early for him, anyway – and also to be able to have something resembling dinner ready by the time Harry gets to his place around eight. Watson greets him more enthusiastically than usual, and Liam realises that’s because he’s likely to get some extra food. When Liam’s early, it’s because things are going well; and when things are going well, Watson gets spoiled. 

He spends a good ten minutes doting on Watson before he straightens, striding into the kitchen to pull out the sparse groceries for some kind of stir fry he looked up on the internet. 

Harry rings the bell at just after eight, and Liam’s swearing as he nearly trips over his humongous dog to get there.

“Hey,” he breathes, sweatpants and t-shirt suddenly feeling way too comfortable in the face of Harry’s black skinny jeans and button down; nearly button-downed all the way, in a fit of irony. His hair frames his face in messy brown curls, and he’s smiling at Liam in a way that makes Liam have to look away – it’s too familiar, too warm for him to think of anything other than wrecking the man before him. It’s been so long, he’s forgotten how to curb his more... unusual appetites.

“Hi, Liam.” Harry greets him, soft and intimate and Liam ignores the flush that travels from his stomach outwards, like a wave, in response.

“Come in, come in,” Liam ushers him in, moving aside and holding onto Watson’s collar for dear life, “Sorry about him, he’s too excited tonight. Watson, calm down,” Liam urges, but Harry’s bright grin has him stopping from saying anything else. Harry crouches down, hands coming up to pet Watson’s big ears fondly.

“I’ve got, err, dinner...” Liam trails off. Harry looks up at him. The position isn’t lost on Liam, and he clears his throat roughly, thinking of all the ways Harry might be on his knees for him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright like they are now in the face of Liam’s loveable canine.

“Brilliant.” Harry enthuses, standing once more and adjusting his shoulder bag. Liam peeks a laptop case, and leads Harry over to the dining table. Like Harry’s place, the table is half-way between the open-plan kitchen and the living room. Liam’s penthouse is elaborate – too extensive and extravagant for just one person and their dog – but sometimes it’s suitable, like when Liam’s trying to impress someone. Like now. 

Liam gestures to the sleek, wooden table before he rushes back into the kitchen. He peeks over his shoulder to see Harry pulling out his laptop – some old, battered thing with stickers all over – that he starts typing into almost immediately. Liam frowns before turning back to the stove, swearing loudly at the bubbling, strange-smelling sauce.

By the time Liam’s plated their meals and sloshed some wine into some glasses, Harry’s got his laptop open and books spread around him, frowning at the screen. As Liam comes closer, he sees the laptop is more dinged up than expected – and that Harry has it on power already despite it seeming to be at full battery.

“Hungry?” Liam prompts, plopping the glass and plate in front of Harry with cutlery before he moves back into the kitchen for his own. He feels awkward all of a sudden, because Harry’s clearly come over for his studying... like was agreed... but once again, Liam’s gone and thought something completely different by habit. It’s almost as if once he sees someone as romantically appealing, he can’t maintain those boundaries and respect that they might not feel the same. If Liam were a lesser person, he might blame that on his preferences. But he knows better, and he knows he’s being presumptuous and pathetic and should probably stop talking to Harry at all if he knows what’s good for him. 

Liam’s been so good for so long, though. He can’t quite stomach the idea of denying himself for much longer. 

“Starving.” Harry replies, grinning at Liam as he gingerly pushes away his laptop, “I didn’t know you were such a chef, Liam. Any more surprises up your sleeve?” 

 _You’ve got no idea,_ a slimy voice hints in Liam’s head – but he pushes it away and simply smiles back instead, digging into his food in the hope it’ll stop him from saying anything terribly inappropriate.

“I feel like,” Harry starts, considering, toward the end of their mostly quiet meal, “Maybe I should ask you some questions, yeah? If we’re, y’know, already here.”

“Right,” Liam agrees jerkily, tipping the rest of his white wine down his throat as some kind of coping mechanism, going to pour another from the half-empty bottle, “Of course. Your article.”

Harry chews absently at his lip, eyes scanning over his ages old laptop before he begins.

“We’ve spoken,” Harry begins slowly, bringing his left hand up to fiddle with his bottom lip thoughtfully, “A bit, y’know, about your past.” 

“Right,” acknowledges Liam, taking another gulp of his wine and trying to ignore the way Harry’s lips get darker with every twist of his fingers; they’re shiny now, and the grip Liam has on the stem of his wine glass turns white with restraint.

“So I was hoping,” His voice sounds slower than usual, and Liam imagines him struggling to get anything out, mouth red and open as Liam’s large hand rests on Harry’s throat – not pressing down, just resting, “– what it does, maybe?”

Liam’s eyes snap up from Harry’s lips to meet his green eyes, his lashes looking wet. Liam squeezes his eyes shut so firmly that he’s almost seeing stars when he decides he has the strength to open them again. 

“I’m– wait, sorry. Err, are you able to... ?” Liam drags a hand down his face, feeling the ache in his jaw from how hard he clenches it. Harry continues to gaze at him evenly, maybe with a hint of curiosity in the quirk of his newly freed lips. “Sorry, lost track a bit.”

“That’s fine,” Harry tells him, shooting him a slow smile, scratching under his left eye briefly before his eyes dart back to his laptop, “I was asking– your company. I know, obviously – it’s a label, and you’re the CEO, but I never thought... well, even with, y’know, your upbringing – well I suppose it’s not your upbringing, but the... I guess your dad was there at the start, helping, and you told me how uni wasn’t really your... area, so to speak–”

He’s rambling a little, but the meandering way he’s trying to ask the question is distraction enough, allowing Liam to inhale quietly but deeply, his thoughts forming in a way that won’t have him arrested for indecent behaviour.

“How do I run the bloody thing?” Liam interrupts him, smiling and ignoring the flash of red hot heat that runs through him when Harry’s cheeks go a little pink, his curls swinging forward off his shoulders when he ducks his head. Harry brings up his right hand – pen between his fingers – to move his hair from one side to the other. Liam follows the movement absently, mind racing.

“A lot of help,” Liam admits, clearing his throat and taking another swig of his wine, “I had a lot of help. From Dad’s advisors, to even my executive assistant. Then I took some, y’know, basic night courses on business and all that.” Harry’s eyes glitter in the dim light of the room, and Liam turns his head to look out of the penthouse windows – London twinkles before him, and he hopes the great expanse allows him to get some room, to take a breath and forget all about how Harry looks seated across from him, gaze curious and waiting. He looks back in time to see Harry scribble down some things in his notebook, flicking his eyes up to look at Liam in between sentences. “I’ve always wanted to be in the studios, though,” He shifts in his chair, suddenly feeling scrutinised, “S’not always the best, but it’s where I like to be.” 

“Not the best?” Harry prods, head coming up to stare at Liam, the smallest frown between his brows. His pen pauses on paper. “How do you mean?”

“It’s nothing,” Liam answers quickly, wondering why he never thought to tell Harry that some things might be best to avoid – or even, why he never thought to practise his answers to uncomfortable, probing questions, “Don’t mean anything by it, really.”

There’s a pause. “Alright,” Harry replies softly, and he simply puts down his pen with a hesitant smile. Liam’s shoulders relax – he hadn’t even realised they’d been bunched – and Harry twists his mouth in consideration.

“Might have some more of that wine,” He says, glancing at Liam before he shuts his laptop, gathering his papers all together, “if it’s on offer.”

“You sure you’re old enough?” Liam teases, unscrewing the wine and pouring some more into Harry’s empty glass.

“I hope so,” Liam hears Harry murmur quietly, and he almost spills the liquid all over the table, coughing to hide his fumble even as Harry raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“You know, I’ll be twenty-one in February,” Harry mentions casually, holding back a smile when Liam gives himself a top-up that nearly hits the rim of his glass, “Legal everywhere by then.”

“Of course,” Liam rushes to answer, not really knowing how else to react to such information – Liam _knew,_ but now he _knows._ “I know you’re old enough, was just teasing.” 

“I like it,” Harry says, and Liam feels his chest tighten as he screws the lid back onto the blasted bottle. He glimpses Harry’s head tilting, his curls swaying a tad as he surveys Liam, “When you joke around,” he clarifies, “Makes you human.”

“Yeah?” Liam responds tonelessly, laughing lightly to cover up the way Harry’s managed to dissect him after only a week or two. How has he let himself be so transparent? “Tell that to the papers, babe.”

 _Fucking Christ,_ Liam swears silently. “Finished?” He asks, not bothering to wait for a reply to sweep up Harry’s plate and take it into the kitchen, gliding past the seated man and dumping everything into the sink loudly.

“ _Shitting–_ ” Liam starts, dropping his head between his arms as he leans against the counter – thankful that he’s not visible from the table. He cuts himself off, breathing deeply before straightening. It’s been too long, way too long. He’s never gone this long before, and he knows he’s projecting, and he knows it’s inappropriate, and he knows he won’t be able to stop thinking about Harry’s wet, red lips stretched around him, his lashes wet with the tears he refuses to shed, full and gasping and gagging and loving it– 

Liam pinches himself to snap back to his terrible, tormenting reality. It’s been too long.

It must’ve been obvious, Liam’s cracking resolve, because when he takes himself back to the kitchen, Harry’s packed up all of his things and he’s shifting to stand.

“Oh,” Liam mumbles, and Harry turns to look at him, “Right, yeah.”

“I’ve got uni tomorrow,” supplies Harry, smiling politely. He starts chewing at his bottom lip, readjusting the strap of his bag. “This was nice,” He tells him as he moves closer to the door, “Quiet.”

“Yes. I mean– yeah,” God, Liam feels like he’s the one who’s twenty, not Harry. He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling out of place in his sweatpants and t-shirt once more, “You’re welcome, you know,” Liam blurts out, wondering what the hell he’s just condemned himself to, “Anytime. If Lou is, y’know, too loud.”

Harry smiles, and his dimples seem obscene with the way Liam imagines–

“Or if someone’s crunching paper at the library.”

“Yes,” Liam breathes, chuckling, pointedly not thinking about anything, “Exactly.”

Watson whines from near the door, and Harry turns with a soft laugh, walking over to him and crouching down to his height.

“It was very nice to meet you,” He says seriously, smile small on his lips. Watson snorts, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth. “Thank you,” Harry says sincerely in reply, giving Watson a parting pat before straightening. Liam’s shuffled a little closer, and he opens the front door before Harry can say anything more.

Why do they always seem to leave each other like this? Awkward, stilted, with all the things Liam wants left unsaid. Harry’s got no clue, surely – and that makes it all the more awkward. Maybe he senses Liam’s difficulty in maintaining composure, but thinks it’s for a whole other reason altogether. Regardless, it starts up an unpleasant grumble in Liam’s stomach.

Nothing good is going to come of this, Liam’s almost certain.

Liam’s fingers twitch on the doorknob as Harry’s eyes lock with his, and then he’s closing the door and it’s just him and his bloody dog on one side, Harry on the other.

“What?” Liam grumbles as Watson’s head tilts, staring at him. Liam feels like Watson must have some sort of telepathic connection with Zayn, because he can’t help but shift uneasily on the spot with that piercing look. 

Liam shakes his head, retreating to the couch. He’s sure Zayn would like to know he looks like Liam’s Great Dane. That’s exactly what he’d want to hear.

He doesn’t tell him, though – in fact, he doesn’t mention Harry coming over at all. And he knows – _fuck,_ does he know – that’s a bad sign. When things started going south before, the first thing Liam did was stay mute. He never said a word; only for Zayn to help pick up the pieces months later when it all went to shit.

It feels different, though, with Harry. _It better be different,_ he thinks crossly to himself in the car on Saturday. Liam can’t take much more of the same, in any case.

“Leeyum, why’re you so... ?” Fleur rolls her eyes, flapping her hands about in the back seat.

“Sorry, flower,” He says, pasting on a bright smile for her – it transforms into something sincere very quickly, “You know how I get around hospitals.”

“Boo,” Fleur groans, her braids flinging about. She’s got so much energy, and Liam feels his heart squeeze in the best way, “It’s just a peck.”

“Check-up, yes,” Liam corrects, trying not to laugh as they pull into the parking. He taps his credit card through at the gate, not bothering to check the rates. He can handle this. It’s Fleur.

She takes his hand as soon as he comes around to open the door, hopping out of the car with an enthusiasm she never used to show for hospitals.

“You’ve been drinking your special drinks, yeah?” Liam confirms, even though Violet had told him, “Lots of water?”

“Yes!” Fleur exclaims as they walk through the doors to the South Wing, the _CHILDREN’S GENERAL NEPHROLOGY_ sign reminding him of his own childhood, even if he hadn’t had his appointments at St Thomas’.

The appointment is a lot less stressful than Liam’s used to – after all, it’s all about maintenance, less about treatment – and so he’s feeling remarkably light as Fleur’s new specialist prints out some sheets for him to take to Francis and Violet.

“And where are you off to now?” Doctor Wiley asks Fleur, who taps her soccer boots on the floor excitedly. She told him once that she likes to tap dance in them, which made part of Liam want to curl up and die quietly.

“Kick about!” she screeches, and Liam winces.

“Inside voice, flower, come on.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she says, smiling, and Liam tries not to weaken his own parental frown.

“Right, well, we’re off,” Liam declares, standing and letting Fleur grab at his hand again, “Need to have this kick about before the rain hits. Thanks, again,” Wiley smiles, reiterating the sheets before they sign out, Fleur almost dragging him through the North Wing as they make their way out.

Fleur’s babbling on about how she’s going to beat Liam – “I’ve been practising, Li, and I’m best,” – when a voice calls out just as they’re about to get to the main lobby.

“Liam?”

Liam turns, Fleur whipping around with him – though she’s still chatting – and suddenly Harry’s there, invading Liam’s weekends as well as his weeknights and Liam can’t exactly catch his breath, even if he’s just been walking slowly for Fleur. 

“Who are you?” asks Fleur, looking up at Harry – his hair’s tied back at the base of his neck today, and he’s got these ridiculous scrubs on. They’ve got ducks all over, Liam realises incredulously, and Harry’s squatting down to outstretch a hand to Fleur, grinning, his bright yellow crocs looking absolutely mental. Liam doesn’t know what to do.

“I’m Harry,” he announces, and Fleur’s little hand rests in his, the contrast of their skin making her look even smaller than she is, “And what’s your name, dove?”

“Fleur, like a flower,” she states, her hand still encased in Harry’s. She’s eyeing him up a bit, as sceptical of the crocs as Liam is, before she takes her hand away. The one in Liam’s grip tightens, and Liam jolts back to the present.

“Harry,” he greets, watching him stand once more, “What are you doing here?” 

“I volunteer here,” he explains, and he scratches at the side of his jaw, face a little hesitant, “For the babies,”

“What?” Liam asks, frowning.

“I mean,” Harry starts again, smiling, “In the early pregnancy unit. Babies.”

“Babies,” Fleur repeats, and Liam wishes she knew how horrible this is for Liam at this moment.

“Early pregnancy’s not babies, though,” Liam tells him, as if Harry doesn’t know – this has sort of blindsided him, and reacting to Harry when he wasn’t expecting to see him for at least another week has him reeling.

Harry, in general, has him reeling.

“No,” agrees Harry, and then says no more.

Fleur tugs on his hand, and Liam can suddenly sense the impatience in her.

“We’re–” Liam jerks his thumb over his shoulder, the main lobby and therefore exit within view of where they’re standing, “Kick about?”

Harry’s eyebrows raise a little, and Liam sees Fleur pouting out of the corner of his eyes and he realises how he’s sounding – maybe he’s not human, like Harry thought. Maybe he’s a robot, unused to human speech and interaction. Maybe he needs some kind of chip implanted in his brain that’ll allow him to be out in public.

“Of course,” Liam replies, as if Harry’s said anything at all, “You’ve got your–” he gestures at Harry’s duck-covered scrubs, “That’s fine. We’ll– I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’m just about to finish, actually,” Harry speaks up, and Liam halts his turn toward the doors, “I’ve not got any boots, though.” 

“That’s okay,” Fleur says slowly, eyeing Harry’s crocs, “Liam doesn’t.”

“Give me a moment?” Harry asks, and then he’s striding away, his bun bouncing a little. Liam nods a little late, and Fleur huffs.

“It’s okay,” she says, turning her head up to look at Liam. She’s got a stubborn expression on her face that she gets from her mother. “I’ll beat him, too.”

“He’s my friend,” Liam says in a hushed whisper, crouching down, “You have to be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Fleur tells him.

Fleur is definitely nicer to Liam than usual, but Harry’s so terrible there’s honestly no point to it.

“You could have said you couldn’t play,” Liam pants out, Harry’s clothed shins all muddied up and Fleur once more kicking the ball through the goal they’ve imagined in Archbishop’s Park. Harry’s hair is damp at his temples, tendrils loose from his bun. Liam doesn’t think about anything. Nothing at all. 

“I can play,” Harry tries to say – if he weren’t out of breath, Liam might’ve thought it was a little aggressive. As it is, Liam just raises his eyebrows. “Alright,” Harry relents, frowning, “Maybe I’ll watch.”

Fleur was right in saying she’d improved, because she actually scores against Liam unexpectedly, running around their little field cheering for herself.

“You’re good with her,” Harry tells him. Liam wipes his sweaty forehead, scrunching his nose at the smell of himself, “How long have you had her?”

“Moreau wins!” Fleur screeches, laughing, her tiny fists in the air. She trips over her own feet and falls to the ground, still laughing. Liam realises he’s going to have to wash the muddy clothes, because he wouldn’t wish that on Francis for the life of him.

“She’s not–” Liam frowns, “She’s like a niece, really.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and Liam turns to see his face clearing, something Liam can’t name disappearing in a second, “That’s nice, too.”

Liam lets himself stare, eyes cataloguing all the ways in which this Harry – weekend Harry – seems different. His jawline is sharp, now that Liam can see it. He’s got sweat beading his upper lip, and his hair is greasy. His shoulders are broad, but somehow lithe at the same time. He’s got thicker thighs than Liam imagined, but his calves are skinny and hairy, and Liam doesn’t bother lingering on the weight he can see at Harry’s hips, peeking out over the elastic of his sweatpants. Liam doesn’t bother with that at all.

Harry turns back to look at Liam, smile growing on his face. There’s a second where Liam thinks he can blurt it all out – _I want you under me; I want you in my bed, in my kitchen; I want you watching my telly, patting my dog; I want you in any kind of way you’ll have me_ – before Liam feels like he gets punched in the stomach.

“Oof,” he groans, and Fleur’s got her hands pushing at him, “Alright, alright, hold on.”

They wrap up the afternoon with one more game, and Harry cheers when Fleur slides in the mud to score.

“Don’t look so down,” Harry consoles him, and his hand brushes Liam’s hip before skirting away, Harry’s eyes flicking to Fleur near them, “Flower’s just better.”

“It’s Fleur.” Fleur tells him, narrowing her eyes with a smile, but Harry ignores her. 

It’s only when Fleur’s smashing her boots together to get the caked mud off, socks sodden, that Harry thinks to leave. 

“I’ll see you,” he says, pulling his duffle from Liam’s car – having stored it there after changing – and shouldering it. He lingers a bit, and Liam decides not to read into it for the sake of his own mental health. “I thought... Thursday was nice. Might like to do it again.” 

“Alright,” Liam agrees, picking off non-existent grass from his long-sleeved Skins, “You’ve got more questions, I’m sure.”

Harry’s smile stays put, but Liam can’t help but feel he’s said the wrong thing after Harry leaves with only a parting fist-bump to Fleur.

“Is he going to play with us again?” she asks when Liam drops her off, palm on the door and face curious, “Because he needs to get better.”

“Might do,” Liam tells her, hoping Harry won’t. It’d be easier, he thinks, if Harry could stick with the questions. It’ll stop Liam from wanting more than he’s allowed.

He’s torn, though, because he doesn’t see that line anymore. Was there ever one? Liam can’t remember, because he’s too busy wondering why Harry would want to ever cross it in the first place. The insidious thought slips into his mind that Harry might use it to get more information, but everything in Liam recoils at the thought. Harry wouldn’t. He doesn’t know him that well, but Harry _wouldn’t._ Liam’s sure of it.

Liam gets to know him, though, with every text sent his way; every _I used to be a baker, can cook up a mean cupcake_ ; every _The North does it better_ ; every _My stepdad thinks my hair looks like a mullet._  

And Harry comes over – not as awkward and bumbling as last Thursday, but he studies at Liam’s table, on Liam’s couch, with Watson by his side, on Liam’s floor. Liam orders takeaway each time, because the pressure of cooking for Harry – even if he’s somewhat decent – was too much that first time. He stays away from the alcohol, offers Harry mineral water instead. He tries to keep to his room, let Harry have his quiet. He tries and tries and tries, but a week and many visits later, he’s right back to square one.

Liam grunts, feeling an elbow jab into his side.

“Oh!” Harry starts, and Liam inhales through his nose, looking up to see Harry’s forehead creasing, his hand coming up to cradle Liam’s at his side. He’d just been coming out of the bathroom, and Liam hadn’t thought to check – he’s used to living alone – and had been accosted. “I’m sorry, Liam. Fuck, is it bad?” 

It’s the first time he’s heard Harry swear, and it’s like the four-letter word brings those carefully built walls crashing down. Before he knows it, Liam’s got an unforgiving grip on Harry’s wrist, stopping him from touching, and he’s trying to will down his embarrassing hard on.

_Fucking hell._

They’re staring at each other – Harry’s eyes flit between Liam’s, pupils wide in the dim hallway – and Liam swallows thickly. The silence of the flat seems all-consuming, like the walls are closing in on them. Liam tightens his fist on instinct, and Harry’s teeth push into his plush bottom lip so quickly it makes Liam’s head spin. They’re close enough that Liam nearly feels Harry’s chest brush his with every heaved breath, the unbuttoned red plaid over his threadbare t-shirt doing nothing to stop Liam’s thoughts from going into overdrive. 

Harry’s breath turns quick and shallow, and then he shifts, his wrist bones grinding, and he lets out an aborted moan – unintentional, given the way his eyes snap back to Liam’s, but dangerous. Faster than he thought possible, Liam wrenches Harry away from him by the wrist, pushing past him into the bathroom and closing the door behind him – not softly, but not loudly either. The perfect amount of force, because Liam’s perfectly under control. He’s in control. He _is_ control.

He’s leaning over the basin, lungs rattling, chest heaving, when he looks up from between his arms to stare into the mirror.

The lines around his eyes seem more prominent now than ever before. The overhead light is suddenly unflattering, and Liam sees the strain around his mouth; he sees the smattering of early greys in his hair and his stubble. His body’s in decent condition – Liam likes to take care of himself – but the expensive watch on his wrist brings him back to reality.

They’re living in two different worlds, he and Harry. Liam’s got his penthouse, his dog, his label. He hasn’t got a stepdad, or a sister, or a mother; he hasn’t got uni friends, he hasn’t even got a fucking _degree._ Instead he’s got five years’ worth of personal shit to work through and an old man’s face. He’s not worth it, not to Harry.

He wishes, though. Sometimes he wishes he might be worth it – or that someone was delusional enough to wrongly think so. Sometimes – just sometimes – Liam wishes he could be enough.

But the reality is this: Liam washes his face, shakes out the tremors in his hands, and goes back to his bedroom. Harry doesn’t say anything, and Liam doesn’t hear him go. 

He wakes up the next morning and his flat is empty except for Watson. It is what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I have an outline but I just need to write the rest.
> 
> Also, sidenote: this is really hard to write without making Liam a massive creep, so please keep that in mind, haha!


	2. Chapter 2

They don’t mention it. Liam wanks and doesn’t let himself come and everything is _fine._

“Back again.” Liam jokes two nights later, Harry at his door. His guest smiles, his green eyes darting around behind Liam as if he’s searching for something. Liam lets him in, feeling weirdly disappointed.

“Niall keeps bringing home his girlfriend,” Harry explains, accepting the glass of water Liam places onto the coffee table with silent thanks. He’s strewn his books out quite quickly, Watson already lying down next to him with Harry’s left hand scratching his big ears. “They’re in that honeymoon phase,” Harry smiles up at him, and Liam clears his throat with a nod, turning his head to look back at the kitchen as if he’s waiting on something. It’s just the takeaway menus, as per usual, but Harry doesn’t know that currently. “Bit much, to be honest. I’m all for showing the love,” Harry confirms quickly over his shoulder as Liam moves away, “But I’ve seen enough of Niall’s tongue to last a lifetime.”

Liam laughs too loudly, but manages to escape to the kitchen and grab any menu and dial up, ordering the first item in each category and hoping they’ll somehow resemble a meal when he lays them out to eat later. For now, he just lets Harry know he’ll be in his room and sets up his laptop, Netflix out on some animal hospital show because there’s nothing sexy about dogs undergoing surgery. He’s still frowning at his screen, gripping the pillow in his lap firmly, when there’s a knock.

He clears his throat, pausing the show. “Come in,” he calls out, shifting on the bed like that’s going to make things look better. It’s a little embarrassing, now that Harry’s going to know what he’s been doing in his room every time he’s over.

His head pokes through the door and his curls look rumpled, like he’s been pulling on them– _don’t think about it._

“Dinner’s here,” he announces, holding up a plastic bag with a smile. His face lights up when he sees Liam’s got his laptop open half-way down the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “Oh, what are we watching?”

He strides in, door wide open behind him as he seats himself next to Liam, peering around to look at the screen. Liam slides over, creating more space between them and momentarily forgetting he’s giving Harry more room to settle in. They’re sitting side by side in a minute, Harry’s leg pushing into Liam’s as he sets their dinner on top of them.

“This is okay, yeah? I know some people get weird about food in bed.”

“It’s fine,” Liam manages, trying not to sound so strained. Thoughts of Harry’s wrist underneath his palm, Harry’s teeth sinking into swollen lips– he leans forward to tap the space bar, starting up the show once more as Harry hands him some plastic forks and napkins, handing over what looks like Pad Thai and some spring rolls. He’s digging into some kind of pork noodle dish himself, and Liam resolutely turns back to the screen, willing the world to help him forget about the heat of Harry burning through to Liam’s side, the brush of his elbow every time he forks some food into his mouth.

“Is it weird, that we’re eating to this?” Harry asks a few minutes later, a cat having spinal surgery in front of them. “I’m strangely not bothered.”

“It’s... probably not normal.” Liam remarks. He’s not bothered because he’s been shovelling food into his mouth with a lot of focus, the television show barely registering.

He’s finished before he wants to be, and Harry takes his empty container from him without question, placing it under his own and finishing his meal in a few bites, then putting it all back in the bag, leaning over to place it on the floor. He flashes some skin, and Liam snaps his head away, licking his lips and tasting Thai and hoping against hope that Harry will go back to his work.

“Bored?” Liam asks another minute later, the two of them sitting silently on the bed as owners gush about their pet, so thankful they survived the operation.

“Just wanted to be where the people are,” Harry singsongs, and Liam huffs a laugh, unable to stop the smile from breaking onto his face. “There it is,” Harry says, and he pokes at Liam’s cheek, “Was beginning to think something was seriously wrong.”

His ability to get by without mentioning – probably without even thinking about – the last time he was here is an absolute feat, and Liam’s incredibly jealous.

“Just tired.” Liam says, because that’s his go-to answer whenever he can’t really say much more.

“Working late?” Harry asks softly, and the show plays on but neither of them are paying any attention now. Harry’s twisted to face Liam, and Liam stares at the laptop without seeing anything.

“Yeah,” Liam answers, because that’s the easy thing to say, “We’ve just signed a new artist, and the team thinks she’s got more of a pop sound. Been trying to write up a talent plan for her that’s more the, y’know,” He waves a hand, wondering why he’s telling Harry about this, “alternative kind of route.”

“What’s her name?” Harry asks, and he’s bringing out his phone, the crack straight down the middle making it difficult for Liam to see anything on his screen. “I might have her.”

He taps on the Music app, and the screen is white for a good thirty seconds before it gets to the main page. Harry doesn’t seem bothered – if anything, this is rote for him.

It’s painful to watch, though – Liam remembers living like that, but once he was able to afford the better things for himself, he found that all of his old devices were almost like torture.

“Here,” Liam says, bringing out his phone, “Have mine,” He taps into the right app in seconds, bringing up Freya’s stuff.

“I can do it,” Harry says slowly, but Liam sees the way his eyes linger on Liam’s phone, the newest model.

“Don’t be silly,” Liam scolds him, shoving his phone into Harry’s lap without any sort of grace, “Her stuff’s already on there. Freya Moss.”

Harry has a hand on Liam’s phone when he pauses at her name, staring at Liam with wide eyes. “Wait,” he says a little hesitantly, “You mean... wait. Freya _Moss?_ ”

“Yeah,” Liam answers, feeling a ridge between his brows, “Why? Do you like her?”

“Liam,” Harry starts, and he inhales sharply, twisting around so he has to tuck his leg under him, his knee digging into Liam’s thigh pleasantly. If he were speaking, Liam might stutter. “I went to her first gig in London, about a year ago. She was amazing.”

“Oh,” Liam says, and he wonders whether he’d seen Harry from afar, at the back of the dingy bar, nineteen years old and barely a blip on Liam’s radar. He feels dirty, then, and pushes that train of thought away. “Right.”

Harry’s eyes search Liam’s face as he continues talking. “I always thought, you know, with her style–” He shoots Liam a smile, “–that she should have a stage name. I dunno, her last name’s pretty. Maybe she should just be Moss.”

And there it is, the final piece of the puzzle. Liam’s been trying to rebrand her for weeks, but changing her name when she’s already established felt like more money than they had to spend on a new artist. This isn’t quite that, though – different enough to stand out, but similar enough to make people wonder _Is that Freya Moss?_

He’s not sure why he didn’t think of it before – too much on his mind, his control weakening with every passing day – but he keeps it close to his chest, doesn’t say anything.

Harry hands him back his phone, smiling, and turns back to Netflix.

The night goes on, and Liam feels like if he moves, or if he says something, he’ll disturb the peace – this truce – they’ve established between them. But when Harry’s head slides onto Liam’s shoulder and Liam cranes his neck to look at Harry’s face and sees that he’s asleep – well, his resolved crumbles a bit. He brings a hand up to his face, feeling its tremor and trying not to let the sting of his eyes overcome him.

It’s just been so long since anything like this – he thinks about Harry under him, about taking him apart; but the worst part of everything is the thought of Harry cuddled up to him, of sleeping next to him, of walking the dog together and playing football with Fleur. It’s not how he needs to think – a physical attraction was one thing, but wanting more is too dangerous.

He’s not sure, though, he realises as he shifts away, shutting the laptop and gently shaking Harry awake; he’s not sure he has the strength to stop.

“It’s late,” he tells Harry, who’s blinking his eyes sleepily, curls flattened a bit on one side.

“Alright,” Harry mumbles, rubbing his eyes. Liam turns away, squeezing his own shut and opening them again in a second, blinking away any kind of feelings.

Liam goes into the main area and starts packing away Harry’s things to get him out faster, but frowns when his computer dies as soon as Liam takes out the power cord.

“I’m sorry,” he apologises when Harry walks in, Liam trying to turn it back on. “It just... it went black.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry smiles, eyes still half-lidded as he comes over, shutting the computer with a snap, “S’old. Does that when the power’s not in.”

Liam wonders just how many of Harry’s things don’t work how they should. Especially when he’s in his last year of uni, due to graduate once he finishes this article on Liam.

“Tomorrow?” Harry asks through a yawn at the door.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees without thinking, cursing himself, “See you then.”

He gets another thank you text for the night before in the morning, ignoring it as he walks into the Apple Store, wondering what the hell he’s doing but somehow not stopping himself.

“Hey, how’s it going?” Someone in a navy shirt asks, logo printed on their chest. Liam smiles, a little shaky.

“I’m looking for a laptop,” He starts, and the employee’s eyes light up – an impressive sale, they probably realise, because Liam’s got on a Rolex and a rather expensive suit, having just come from the office. It’s his lunch break, but he figures he can always eat at his desk.

“I’m Dana,” she introduces herself, offering a hand to Liam. He shakes it, a little perplexed. “Is this laptop for you?”

“Oh,” Liam starts as they walk over to a particular desk, computers lined up, “No, it’s a gift, actually.”

“Alright,” she says, smiling, and Liam feels like he’s being scrutinised, “What are they going to be using it for?”

“University,” Liam blurts out, rubbing the back of his neck. His collar feels tight, itchy, even though his tie is loosened. “In his last year. But his laptop doesn’t hold up unless it’s plugged into the wall.” Liam frowns, “And he’s a good student. Deserves something better, I think.”

She eyes Liam up a bit, but it’s not unfriendly.

“Okay,” she says, “He’s just going to be using it for writing? No music or film editing, anything like that?”

“Uh,” Liam stammers, wracking his brain for everything he thinks Harry might be using a computer for. He tries not to think too much, when his mind goes to other things. “To be honest, I’ll just get the one with the most, uh, features.” He smiles at her, clearing his throat, “Price isn’t an issue. Whatever’s going to give him the most, I’ll get.”

Her eyebrows raise but she smiles, seeming pleased. Liam wonders whether she’s getting commission.

“I think the MacBook Pro is the one for you. The fifteen inch–” Liam tries not to flinch, wondering why he’s been condemned with the most awful mind, “–will give you more power, better performance. And, of course, the larger screen allows for a more extensive range of program utilisation.” She smiles, laughing, “It’ll be good for Netflix, too, if he’s a uni student.”

“Right,” Liam agrees, exhaling evenly, “I suppose that’d be a thing, yeah.”

She pulls out a bulky iPod from her belt, tapping into it quickly. “Were you thinking of looking at cases at all? We’ve also got something called AppleCare, which protects–”

“Everything’s good,” Liam hurries to say, wanting to leave because she’s got this knowing look on her face, “Whatever’s the brightest case you’ve got, I’ll take it. Add on the, uh, insurance.”

“For sure,” she says, tapping a bit again as she smiles down at her iPod. “Were you looking at getting anything else today? We’ve got something called Personal Setup, which means he can come in whenever he wants to set up the laptop with us.”

“No, no,” Liam says, smiling shakily as he pulls out his wallet, “That’s fine.” He’d had vague thoughts about a phone, but he realises as someone comes out with the large laptop and Dana grabs a case from the accessories wall that this is probably a bit much already, and convincing Harry to take a phone on top of this would likely be impossible.

Maybe sometime later, after Harry publishes his article. A thank you gift, he might get away with.

“Maybe,” he starts, clearing his throat when Dana looks at him expectantly, “He might need a hard drive, to transfer all the files over.”

“No problem.” Dana answers, and she reaches over to grab one that reads 2TB. It’s probably too big, but Harry could need it one day. The difference is only just over seventy quid, he notes, so he’s fine for it. More than fine.

He hands over his black American Express, ignoring Dana’s curious eyes and mumbling a goodbye after she hands over everything in a bag and tells him he – _Harry_ – is bound to enjoy it.

The bag sits untouched next to his desk, and he ignores Zayn’s narrowed eyes as he leaves the office a little earlier again, knowing Harry’s bound to drop by around seven o’clock, even if they never specified an exact time.

He’s nervous, for some reason. He’s done this before – did it for Zayn, when he complained about getting stuck in the rain with his phone. Leaving the new iPhone on his desk for him to find hadn’t felt nearly as nerve-wracking, and the reluctance with which Zayn accepted the gift had just made Liam smile.

But now he feels nauseated, like he’s proposing or something, and not just giving a mate a gift. Because that’s what this is, Liam tells himself – Harry’s his friend, now. Friends give gifts, and Liam saw Harry was in need of one. It’s not a big deal, he tries to remember when he hears the expected knock on the door at about quarter past. He rubs his palms on his slacks – he’d been too nervous to change out of his work clothes, but at least he’s only got socks on, no formal shoes. His shirt’s unbuttoned, and he quickly whips off his tie when he realises its hanging loosely from his neck.

He runs a distracted hand through his hair, pauses a moment to breathe deep, and then he opens the door with a smile, wiggling his toes absentmindedly.

“Evening,” He greets, internally cringing at his own tone. He sounds like he’s having Harry over for a three-course meal.

“Hey,” Harry greets him, smiling. He’s got tired eyes, some dark circles. His nose is a little red, like he’s been out in the cold for too long. Liam frowns.

“Tea?” He asks as he moves aside to let Harry pass. Harry smiles gratefully, nodding.

Liam rushes to the kitchen, trying to distract himself with the beverages when he hears Harry call out from the dining area.

“Liam? What’s this?”

“Just a minute!” He replies, fiddling with the strainers and trying not to panic. He gives himself a few more minutes to calm down before he brings tea cups and a pot out, steaming hot – there’s no more excuse to linger, so he places them on the table and simply avoids Harry’s eyes as he pours them the tea.

“Liam,” Harry prods, and his voice has gone a little wonky, like Liam’s hearing it through a few layers of glass, “Why’s this got my name on it?”

“S’a gift,” he explains, shooting Harry a short smile, focusing back in on making sure he doesn’t overflow the cups. “Do you take it with milk?”

“No,” Harry answers quickly, barrelling on almost without pause, “Liam, I can’t accept this, it’s...” Liam sneaks a peek, sees him finish pulling out the boxed up laptop still with clear film on, the bright pink case – Liam wants to blush, but it seems to fit (how did Dana _know?_ ) – and the hard drive box, all neatly stacked. “ _So_ expensive.” He whispers the last part, and somehow Liam gets the feeling he wasn’t meant to have heard it.

“Your laptop’s a mess, Harry,” Liam tries to explain, ignoring Harry’s frown as he pushes his tea toward him, “And with a new laptop, you need a case that fits. The hard drive’s to transfer everything.”

“ _Liam,_ ” Harry stresses, looking up at him. He seems even more tired, more exhausted. His eyes are shining in the dim light of the room, and Liam just wants to brush his hair away from his face, hold him close. _Jesus._

“You’ve been trekking it here and back so much,” Liam blurts out, improvising now that he’s under pressure, “It’s costing you a fortune. Maybe this will help make up for it a bit.”

“Travelling to and from Kensington from Peckham does _not_ equal a laptop, Liam.” Harry says, and he sounds frustrated, now. Liam wants to cringe away, call on Watson to protect him from this possible ire. “I can’t.”

There’s something about Harry’s tone, though; something in there that Liam wants to reach out and touch – and so he pushes, because that’s what he does when he senses that. When he gets close to a button he wants to jab.

“You’re taking it,” Liam demands, tone hard and brooking no argument. His own tea sits unattended on the table, multiple sugars in. It seems a rather unusual thing to note, but he does, “or it’s going in the bin.”

Harry’s jaw clenches, jutting out sharp and hard in stark contrast to his soft curls. His chair screeches back as he stands, and he starts packing his things back away roughly, shoving them into his shoulder bag. Liam sees him wipe at his face quickly – almost too fast to catch – and suddenly he regrets doing this at all, if it’s going to make Harry so upset.

“I never wanted this from you,” Harry says fiercely, looking up at Liam with slightly red eyes, “ _Never._ ”

He strides away, walking past a whining Watson, toward the front door. Liam hurries to follow, his stomach churning.

“Harry,” He calls out as the younger man reaches for the doorknob, about to leave. He pauses, stretching out his fingers as he waits for Liam to continue. “Let me do this for you,” Liam pleads softly. Harry’s head turns slowly, his chin giving the slightest wobble. His eyes are clear, though, no tears in sight. “ _Please._ ”

His face crumples as he turns back around. He tugs on his hair, distressed and biting his bottom lip red raw.

“You’re making this really difficult, Liam.” He states, and Liam’s eyes rove over his angular features, his soft and threadbare clothes. He’s never seen jeans and a knit jumper look so lovely.

“I’m sorry.” Liam apologises, though he’s not entirely sure what Harry’s getting at. Harry just shakes his head, gives a light chuckle. “What,” Liam starts, suddenly curious in the calm, “what _do_ you want from me, then?”

“What?” Harry asks, breath hitching. He shuffles back a bit, and Liam feels himself go rigid, his mind whirring.

“You said, just now,” he continues calmly, even though he’s connecting the dots, everything falling into place. “You said you never wanted gifts from me.” Liam tilts his head, swallowing. “Then what did you want?”

“I’m trying my best to–” He cuts himself off, licking his lips in hesitation. Liam takes a step forward, and then another.

“To what?” Liam prompts, taking another step closer. Harry’s eyes dart down with every one, then flick back up to his face. “To what, Harry?”

They’re only a few feet apart, and Liam hears Harry because he’s stopped breathing, waiting for an answer.

“–to be professional.” Harry finishes in a whisper, staring at Liam’s lips. Liam thinks he hears the vague thud of Harry’s bag hitting the floor.

He knows he shouldn’t – he knows it goes against company protocol, university protocol, his own new set of rules he set five years ago; it goes against all of it, but Liam kisses Harry as easy as falling off a building. There’s the great rush, the wind flying by his ears so fast they nearly burst; and then there’s the landing, sudden and hard and fatal.

Liam shoves Harry up against the door, swallowing his sound of surprise and grabbing at his hips, feeling the extra cushioning there and squeezing hard. Harry makes another sound, a little higher and choked off, like Liam’s hurt him a bit but he doesn’t want to stop.

Liam rips his lips away, dragging them down Harry’s jaw to his throat, biting and sucking because it’s all he’s been able to think about since the weekend, Harry’s hair up and away from his face a temptation too difficult to ignore.

“Liam,” Harry moans, tipping his head back, pulling Liam in with hands on his arse. Their dicks touch through fabric, and Harry moans again, “ _Shit,_ Liam.”

“Do you want to?” He pants into Harry’s neck. He pulls back to look at his face, to catalogue what he’s thinking. He has to know for sure. “Harry?”

“Right now?” Harry breathes, staring at Liam wide-eyed. “I don’t...”

They’re leaning against the door, so all Liam has to do is reach over for his wallet on the side table, flip it open, and pull out the condom there. He reads the date – it’s not expired, thank fuck – and holds it up, leaning in to cover Harry’s mouth with his, swiping at the roof of his mouth and shuddering at the moan he gives.

 _So responsive,_ Liam thinks, squeezing his eyes shut as he shifts to rest his forehead on Harry’s chest, scrambling for Harry’s button and fly. It’s inelegant, but Harry does the same for him, letting Liam’s slacks fall to the ground in a heap so he can step out of them, almost stumbling into Harry and the door when Harry reaches into his boxer briefs and cups his cock.

“Babe,” groans Liam, and Harry’s hips twitch forward suddenly, like that was unexpected.

“I had a shower before I got here.” Harry pants as he hurriedly unbuttons Liam’s white shirt; his hair seems wild, untethered. “ _Come on._ ” He looks a vision, there against Liam’s door.

Liam pushes his jeans down and Harry tugs them off the rest of the way with his feet, shoes along with them. Liam pushes up Harry’s layers, leaning down to lick at his nipples.

“ _Liam,_ ” Harry moans, and Liam sees the wet spot forming on his boxer briefs, the fabric clinging to his thighs stubbornly. Liam gives a bite to the butterfly tattoo in the middle of Harry’s chest – isn’t that a surprise – and relishes in the jerk of his hips forward, seeking friction.

Liam shoves a hand out, pulls open the side drawer and scrambles for some lube as Harry continues to jerk him roughly, not quite enough of a rhythm to have Liam close to coming as he removes Harry’s underwear, letting it sit just above his knees.

He opens the tube as quickly as he can, covering his fingers with it as he leans in to kiss Harry again, a hand settling on his stretched throat. Like this, up against the door with Harry’s shoes off, Liam’s just the slightest bit taller. It makes him shiver, arm curving around Harry to slide a hand between his cheeks impatiently.

Harry moans when Liam enters him, hips pistoning forward and mouth dropping open. _Positively obscene,_ Liam thinks as his heart races, chest all of a sudden feeling tight.

He’s shoving back into one finger soon enough, and then two, and then Liam’s got three in him, scissoring and nudging against his prostate, just enough to have Harry squirming, face tilting toward the ceiling as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Turn around,” Liam orders roughly after some minutes, pulling out and grabbing Harry by the elbows, guiding him so his back faces Liam, his briefs falling to the floor with the movement. He bends over, arse sticking out as Liam shoves his own briefs down, the elastic resting just below his balls as he slides the condom over himself, giving a few tugs to his neglected cock but trying to keep things calm – he’s got this, he knows. He feels everything go blank, his mind utterly focused on Harry and his pleasure. He feels _right,_ and the thought of having to give this up again makes his brain hurt, so he shoves that all aside and grabs Harry’s left hip as he slowly pushes in, legs shaking a bit as Harry’s head drops, curls messy and nape sweaty with the effort of their activities. He slides his right hand up Harry’s spine, grasping Harry’s right shoulder, his thumb pressing into the base of Harry’s neck.

“Alright?” Liam asks, hips shifting back a bit. He can see Harry’s hands against the door jamb, fingertips white with pressure.

“Just–” Harry grunts, and his shoulders ripple as he shifts, muscles twitching a bit. “One second.” Liam clenches his jaw and tries to stay still.

His shoulders slowly begin to relax, and just as they’re about there, Liam pushes back in; knows Harry’s not at his limit when he grunts again, but this time his hips follow Liam’s backward, not wanting the distance a thrust brings.

“ _Easy,_ ” Liam murmurs, squeezing Harry’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing back and forth over a knob in his spine, “We’ve got time.”

He’s slow for a little while, watching Harry’s hands falter on the jamb until one eventually comes down to start touching himself. Liam pulls at Harry’s shoulder, then, making the both of them stumble forward until his chest is to Harry’s back, and Harry’s arms can’t snake down to strip his own cock, his front trapped against the door.

Liam thrusts a bit harder, a bit faster, hearing Harry’s huffs of breath and low sounds as he pushes in a little harshly with every third or so twist of his hips.

“Liam,” Harry breathes, and Liam brings a hand up to Harry’s jaw, leaning back so Harry can turn his head and then they’re kissing, sloppy and uncoordinated; but Harry’s pushing himself back into Liam now, desperate and close.

“ _So good,_ ” Liam tells him, unable to help himself as he presses his hand more firmly into Harry’s hip, bound to leave a bruise in the shape of his fingers, “You feel amazing.”

“Fuck,” Harry chokes out, and Liam can see him bite his lip hard and so he guides him back by the hips and slips his other hand down, grabbing Harry’s cock and jerking him until he moans, long and low, and comes against Liam’s front door, sticky and wet and so much.

“ _Harry,_ ” Liam groans, and he pushes his forehead in between Harry’s shoulders, his vision whiting out as his hips stutter out of rhythm.

His upper lip is dragging against Harry’s back when he gets a hold of himself, shifting away and noticing Harry’s slight wince once he’s out. He ties off the condom and throws it in the bin under the side table as he pulls up his briefs, his skin slapping against Harry’s as he turns him around. Harry looks dazed, eyes half-lidded. Liam grasps his jaw in his left hand.

“Harry,” he croaks, but he’s in control enough to lock eyes with him, tap his right palm against Harry’s side, jostling him into awareness. “You with me?”

Harry huffs, face stretching into a smile.

“Yeah,” he says, and Liam tries not to follow the bob of his throat, the sweat forming at his temples, “I’m here. Sorry.”

“Are you alright?” Liam asks, letting go of his jaw to pull Harry’s face in and kiss him softly, “I didn’t hurt you?”

Harry sighs, eyes opening a bit more and hand coming up to pick lazily at Liam’s shirt collar. “Nothing I didn’t want.”

“Good,” Liam breathes, smiling and feeling the beginnings of his crow’s feet appear, “That’s good.”

“You’re still wearing your shirt.” Harry notes absently, and Liam chuckles.

“Didn’t quite get it off, did I?”

Harry hums, closing his eyes. He frowns after a moment, looking confused.

“Did that... did that just happen?”

“Yeah, Haz,” Liam tells him, smiling, “Come on, I’ll put you to bed.”

“Your door,” Harry protests as Liam pulls him away, turning his head to look back at his come all over Liam’s front door.

“Don’t worry about it,” Liam assures him, entwining their fingers, “I’ll deal with it later.”

Harry snorts but he follows Liam into the bedroom, landing heavily onto the bed, face-down.

“Harry,” Liam laughs, feeling light, “Turn around, babe.”

Harry turns, bouncing a bit on the mattress as he gets comfortable. He shoots Liam a soft look, hair all over the place. “I like it when you call me that.”

“Babe?” Liam repeats, finally taking off his shirt and stepping out of his briefs. Harry’s eyes follow the movements, curious.

“Yeah,” Harry says, sighing when Liam gets into bed with him, pulling him into his chest, “You should call me that all the time.”

“Alright,” Liam relents, because it’s hardly a chore to give Harry a pet name.

He lets Harry rest his head on his chest until he feels the soft puffs of his breathing against his skin, the rhythm of it indicating his partner’s asleep. He plays with Harry’s hair, a little indulgence, before he shifts out from under him carefully, pulling the covers back over his place to keep the warmth in.

He arrives just in time, because Watson’s obviously decided the telly room is no longer interesting and is making his way over to the front door.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Liam tells him, shooing him away. He grabs a wet cloth and spray and cleans up, picking their clothes from off the ground and folding them neatly once he’s done, throwing the cloth away. He closes the side table drawer and repositions Harry’s bag, disposes of the cold tea into the sink and washes up the pot and cups, and then brings Harry’s gift back into his bedroom, letting Watson in to sit in his own bed on the floor, falling asleep soon enough given the soft snores from the corner.

He opens the box once he’s seated on top of the covers, and goes through the motions of setting up the computer. Harry sleeps like the dead beside him, face clear and curls an absolute horror. Liam figures he’ll leave the transferring to him, but he installs all the relevant programs and makes sure everything’s in working order before he slips it into its case and leaves once more to put it into Harry’s bag. He sees Harry’s phone light up before he places it in there, and he dips his hand in to take it out, thinking it might need a charge.

 _How’s McHottie Payne?_ Louis Tomlinson has sent, and Liam snorts. He places it back into the bag with the new computer and retreats to Harry, climbing into bed. He pushes a few stray curls away from his young face before setting his alarm on his own charging phone and turning out the lights.

When he shuts his eyes, sleep takes him quickly for the first time in a long while.

 

***

 

It’s only when Liam gets out of the shower the next morning, towel around his waist, that Harry wakes.

“What time is it?” He asks, voice rough with sleep. Liam smiles at him, leans over until their faces are only inches apart.

“Too early for you to be awake,” Liam tells him, pausing a second before leaning in to kiss him briefly, lips tingling. “Go back to sleep.”

“Where are you going?” Harry mumbles, shifting onto his side when Liam straightens, turning back around to drop his towel and step into his boxer briefs. Harry’s silent, and Liam tries not to laugh.

“I’ve got work, babe,” Liam answers, walking into his wardrobe to grab the day’s suit, only coming back out once he’s in slacks, belt unbuckled. Harry’s twisted on the bed, his shoulders on the mattress but the rest of him still on his side. His hair desperately needs a comb-through, his eyes still half-lidded. Liam’s eyes rove over the smattering of tattoos on his pale shoulders and arms, the rest covered by Liam’s dark grey sheets and doona covers.

He really wishes he didn’t have to go to work – not when Harry’s laid out for him like this, a temptation he doesn’t even realise, skin waiting to be marked up.

He fixes his cufflinks and shrugs on his suit jacket, deciding to forgo the tie because thinking about all the ways he could use it on Harry throughout the day might be a bit much for him to handle, now that he’s let the floodgates open.

He can’t think too much about it; there are so many conversations he needs to have – with himself and with Harry – but he just wants to enjoy this for a little bit. At least enough that when this gets taken from him, his hands don’t feel empty and his heart doesn’t feel ripped down the middle.

He shoulders his bag as his eyes lock with Harry’s sleepy gaze, making him hesitate. He sighs, striding over until he’s leaning toward him again, pushing a hand into his tangled curls and watching the way Harry’s mouth drops open slightly, his lashes looking thick and sultry; feeling the way Harry’s wide palm rests hotly over Liam’s wrist.

He lets his right thumb rub across Harry’s cheekbone, down to his jaw and then across until he’s scratching at the place where his dimple would be if he were smiling. He’s so young like this, naked in Liam’s bed. Liam feels wholly undeserving, and like this might be the best reward he’s ever gotten for something he’s forgotten to do.

“Make yourself at home,” murmurs Liam, kissing Harry a little longer this time, catching his bottom lip between his own. It’s still too brief, though, but it’ll have to do. “I’ll talk to you later.” He retreats and turns to leave, narrowing his eyes playfully at a sleepy Watson in the good. He points at him, smiling. “You be good.”

Work is tiresome, when he thinks of what he could be doing instead. Then Zayn hovers in his office around eleven, a weird expression on his face.

“Alright, what is it?” Liam asks, raising an eyebrow as he rolls up his shirt sleeves.

His face goes pinched, and he looks like he doesn’t really want to be having the conversation but that it’s necessary. “Why do you look like you got laid last night?”

Liam splutters, choking on air, hands fretting over paperwork on his desk that he suddenly has no clue how to read.

“That’s not– _Zayn._ ” Liam struggles to get anything out, the back of his neck feeling awfully warm.

“So you did,” Zayn declares, seeming pleased, “Right. And I suppose this wouldn’t have anything to do with you leaving the office early – for your standards – the past two weeks?”

Liam says nothing, just busies himself with sorting out the papers for the meeting he has before lunch. He can’t even fathom what it’s about, but he supposes he’ll have to get his shit together if he’s to still be in charge of the bloody label by the end of the day.

“Right,” Zayn says, smirking as he leaves off the ‘t’, “Well, Shawn’s coming by after lunch, using one of the studios. You told me to let you know.”

“Of course,” Liam rasps, and then clears his throat to rid himself of the embarrassing croak, “Yes. Alright, thank you.”

The meeting’s a blur, and Liam eats his lunch at his desk because he has to go over the notes Zayn took to get any semblance of what he was nodding along to for an hour.

His neck’s aching from looking down at the pages before him when Zayn’s voice buzzes through.

“Styles here to see you,” He says, and Liam almost knocks his glasses off his nose at how quickly he sits up. Zayn sounds awfully smug, and Liam dreads the conversation to follow.

“Uh,” Liam stutters, finger on the speaker button so Zayn can hear him, “Sure. Send him in, Zayn.”

It’s barely ten seconds before the glass door is opening. Liam’s suddenly thankful for the way his office is pretty soundproof, the frosted glass doing almost everything plaster walls would to keep prying eyes from guessing what’s going on.

“Harry,” Liam greets, and he stands up, moving around his desk and lingering by the guest chair, wondering how this is supposed to play out. He didn’t expect to see him so soon – had thought to take an hour at the end of the day to get his thoughts in order, to figure out exactly how he can tell Harry that maybe they shouldn’t, considering Harry’s writing the article. His back-up plan if he’d found himself unable to say no had been to suggest a mutually beneficial partnership, where they get each other off like teenagers and that’s all they do.

But seeing Harry now – seeing the way his grey joggers make him look all the more soft; seeing the way the outline of his inked swallows and large butterfly can be seen through his white threadbare t-shirt.... well, Liam’s reluctant to admit that maybe he’s kidding himself if he thinks he can stop himself from giving Harry all of him. Maybe it’d be easier, he thinks foolishly, if he lets Harry steal away his heart and inevitably break it.

“You look cosy.”

Harry gives a small smile, pushing hair behind his left ear. “S’all I could find that fit.” And of course – unless he went back to Peckham only to return to Kensington, he’d only have his likely soiled clothes from yesterday.

“I don’t mind.” Liam tells him, leaning back against his desk. Harry seems to shift from one foot to the other before he makes up his mind, striding forward until he can rest his left hand on the juncture between Liam’s neck and shoulder, pushing close enough to kiss but not committing to the last inch.

“Is this alright?” He murmurs, and his eyes flick to Liam’s lips. Liam pulls back to look at him, feeling something a little icy seep into his chest. It would be so easy to say yes, to let Harry kiss him. It would be so easy to pull him in by his hips and not let him go. It would be so easy to do all of these things – and whilst Liam’s usually in the business of making things easier for himself, there’s a voice in his head that’s demanding he do this right.

He’s never done things like this right before, and it feels more important, this time, that he do.

“You’ve got to let me know,” Liam says seriously, trying not to frown as he looks between Harry’s mossy eyes, “if this isn’t what you want.”

“Liam,” Harry says after a pause, looking at him like he’s just blurted out gibberish. His tone is incredulous, breaking the gentle moment between them, “I got off in the shower this morning to the thought of last night. Took me about two minutes. I want this.”

“It’s different,” Liam insists, pushing Harry away lightly and walking around his desk to sit in his chair, hoping the distance between them will help him breathe, “when it’s more than once. Just because you wanted it then doesn’t mean you still do.”

Harry follows without question, coming around to sit in front of him on his desk. Liam glimpses the blob of Zayn’s dark head of hair outside and silently thanks the frosted glass once more, grateful that it’s opaque enough that not even their shadows are easily discernible.

Harry’s acquisition of Liam’s joggers suddenly seems intentional when he spreads his legs, the fabric pulling to outline his cock, slightly off centre to Liam’s right. Liam drags his eyes up, thankful there’s no knowing smirk on Harry’s face.

“I still do,” Harry says, and his voice sounds dark and desperate, his eyes glittering in the afternoon sun coming through Liam’s floor to ceiling windows, “ _Liam._ ”

 _He doesn’t know what he’s asking for,_ Liam thinks as he spreads his wide palms onto Harry’s knees, sliding them up his thick thighs and intently watching the way Harry’s lips part, pink and waiting. His right thumb grazes the head of Harry’s dick, and Harry inhales sharply. Liam can see his abs twitch through his thin t-shirt.

Liam glides his chair closer, Harry’s legs bracketing the arms of it as Liam lets himself squeeze Harry’s hardening length, his other hand scratching across Harry’s happy trail. He shudders, eyes fluttering.

“Did you think about this?” Liam murmurs, his hand moving away only briefly to tug at the elastic waistband of Harry’s pants. His own feel constricting, suffocating. He can’t wait to be rid of them. “When you walked here,” Liam starts, feeling frustrated that they won’t come off and standing abruptly, ignoring the sound of his chair rolling back and hitting the glass, and pushing Harry until his shoulders hit the desk, hair splayed and already a mess, “did you think of this?”

“I,” gasps Harry, Liam yanking his joggers down his legs roughly and exposing his cock to the air. No underwear. Liam wants to ruin him, “never thought.”

He’s panting, even though Liam’s barely touched him. His cock is dripping, and Liam asks because it seems like the only reason for it.

“Did you touch yourself?” He leans down, bites at Harry’s bottom lip but licking the sting away when he shudders again. “Before you got here?”

“No,” Harry breathes out, and his pupils are wide. Liam doesn’t think he even knows what’s happening, what Liam’s doing.

He twists his head, seems to realise where they are. “Liam, the glass–”

“No one can see,” Liam assures him, circling Harry and loving the way his hips twitch up into his grip, “Just me.” He leans in, kisses Harry softly, his left hand coming up to cradle his cheek. He’s glad for all those ab workouts at the gym, because they’re very much helping now. “It’s just me, just us.”

Harry breathes against his lips, but his eyes are wide and trusting as he nods, eyelashes sticking together as they flutter. Liam’s heart warms, and suddenly he needs this to be gentle, to be the two of them making each other feel good – not just Liam watching Harry fall apart.

“You alright?” He murmurs, pushing some wayward wisps of hair away from Harry’s forehead. Harry nods again. “What do you want, babe?”

“Liam,” Harry whispers, and he pulls him down into a barely-there kiss. They separate slowly, both of them lingering.

“Do you want to ride me?” Liam murmurs, but Harry shakes his head no, curls shifting with it.

“Can I blow you?” He asks instead, and Liam flits his gaze down to Harry’s lips, pink and wet. He peels himself away and helps Harry off the desk, his eyes settling on his still hard cock as Harry gently turns him so his arse perches on the wood, legs splayed. It’s almost comical, the way Harry’s still wearing a t-shirt – but it only makes Liam think they’re at home, the two of them so comfortable that nothing else matters, really, but the touch of a mouth to skin, the clench of a hand in hair.

Then he’s on his knees, and the sight makes Liam’s breathe catch as Harry unbuttons his slacks, tugging at them until Liam lifts his arse and lets Harry get a hand on him, spitting into his palm after a few dry tugs.

“Harry,” Liam moans, soft and quiet as his left hand slides into Harry’s curls. Harry looks up at him, and the whole image is so obscene that Liam nearly comes right then and there, all over Harry’s face.

It’s a thought for another time, though. Harry leans in and takes Liam into his mouth and Liam can only stare, not daring to look away from Harry’s wet lips, the way he’s shifting in his position because he’s got his spare hand on his own cock, pumping as he moans.

“You look–” He goes to say after a few minutes, but Liam can’t finish, feeling the rush of his orgasm as Harry flicks his tongue against his slit. He tightens his grip on Harry’s hair and trembles as Harry swallows without preamble, closing his eyes only for a moment for fear of breaking apart at the seams.

Harry lets Liam’s dick slide out of his mouth, and then he’s panting against Liam’s clothed knee, spent. It takes a few moments for both of them to recover, and then Harry’s standing, his dick softening in increments.

“You came?” Liam asks, and Harry bites his lip. “ _Fuck._ ” He pulls Harry toward him quicker than the moment warrants, and then he’s kissing him, tongue lapping at the roof of Harry’s mouth and tasting himself.

It’s another few minutes before they stop, and Liam looks down to see Harry’s ruined his t-shirt. And he has to go outside in it, walk all the way back to Liam’s penthouse.

“Here,” Liam says after he’s tucked himself back in and buckled his belt. He reaches down to open the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, pulling out one of his zip-up hoodies he uses when he works out on the way home. “Use this.”

Harry’s just let the elastic snap back onto his tattooed hips, and then he’s accepting the garment with a smile, zipping it up over his dirty t-shirt. Apart from his red lips and glassy eyes, he looks almost normal. The hair’s a mess, but it’s always a mess and Liam doesn’t think many people will notice the difference.

He’s quiet, but Liam’s getting the sense this might be what it’s like when he takes care of him, when he lets Harry set the pace. Last night wasn’t as overwhelming as it could have been, but today – well, Liam has more to give but he thinks this was a good start. He needs to talk to him.

If he can.

Harry shuffles forward, and Liam’s snapped from his thoughts when he goes to fix Liam’s shirt collar for him.

“Can I stay over tonight?” He asks, and he looks at Liam from under his eyelashes, “I’ve not got uni tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is Friday, and Liam carefully doesn’t think about what that means.

“‘Course.” He tells him, wiping the corner of Harry’s mouth with a thumb because it makes him lick his lips, searching for the last remnants of... well, of Liam. “I’ll be home early.”

He leaves the office at four thirty, and it just might be a new record for him. By the look on Zayn’s face, it’s obvious who he’s going home to.

“I didn’t realise it was him,” Zayn tells him after they run over the day’s schedule, making sure everything’s been accounted for. “Liam, be careful, yeah?”

“It’s fine, Zayn,” Liam tells him, smiling, “Don’t worry about me.”

He turns on Zayn’s furrowed brows, forgetting about them the moment he walks through his own front door, heart in his throat and innards dancing.

“Hey,” Harry greets him from the sofa, his head turned towards the door as he smiles. Watson’s got his head in Harry’s lap, and Liam can see a mug of black tea on the coffee table. Harry’s socked ankles are crossed on the wood, and Liam’s chest tightens.

He walks across the room without a word, burying a tender hand in Harry’s curls and turning his head to kiss him slowly, taking his time to catalogue the way all those cells of his are touching Harry’s, roaring in happiness and melting at the way Harry’s tongue brushes Liam’s lips gently once before they both pull away.

“Hey,” Liam replies, grinning, feeling his eyes crinkle up. “Let me change, and then I’ll be with you.” He leans in to kiss Harry again, short and sweet, and then rips himself away to dump his things in his closet and change into roomy jeans and a t-shirt, infinitely more comfortable than his work clothes.

It feels supremely normal to sit by Harry’s side and watch re-runs of _Gogglebox._ It feels even more normal to have Harry swing his legs over Liam’s thighs, to rest his hands over Harry’s bony ankles to warm them up. It feels normal when Harry drifts off to sleep about eleven, mouth gaping open humourously, Watson slotted in between him and the back of the sofa. The leftover containers of Italian are strewn all over the coffee table, but Liam finds he doesn’t care, really. He lets them sit there, shooing Watson away so he can gently shake Harry awake. He helps him off the lounge and lets Harry nuzzle sleepily into his neck, mumbling nonsense as Liam takes both of them to bed.

It’s too normal, and that’s what’s _not_ normal about it all.

He avoids Zayn’s eyes the next day, leaves at a little more respectable five thirty, and comes home to Harry in the kitchen.

“Thought I’d cook for you again,” he says, and he’s wearing his shirt from the first night but with Liam’s sweatpants again. It’s an image Liam has to stop expecting, because it’s going to throw him off when Harry’s not wearing his clothes anymore. When this dream they’re in finishes and they both have to remember what it’s like to operate in the real world.

“Did you?” Liam murmurs against his neck, letting his nose tickle Harry’s skin before he moves away to his bedroom, changing into more comfortable clothes again – matching Harry, this time.

The fried rice is good, though Harry’s a little quiet as they eat, the tiniest of dents between his brows that makes Liam’s stomach churn with the worst kind of anticipation.

“Liam,” he starts, and Liam swallows down a large chunk of carrot, thankful he refrains from coughing up rice everywhere. Harry sounds like he’s about to say something important, and the only important thing Liam can think of is that Harry doesn’t want to do this anymore, before they’ve even properly _started._

“Yes?” Liam prompts when he doesn’t continue, voice strained. He pushes his fork through his meal absentmindedly, clearing his face of expression. Best to make this easy for Harry – after all, Liam sort of sprung this on him, didn’t he? He’s only twenty – _Christ, only twenty_ – and he’s likely got better things to do than hang around Liam’s place all day and cook him dinner. God, Liam’s so in over his head with this. His heart thumps feebly in his chest, even as it races – like there’s no point to any of it anymore, not when Liam’s fucked everything up so royally.

“Bit awkward,” Harry chuckles, tugging on an errant curl as he smiles at Liam, “But, like. The article’s... something I still have to do. And I know that maybe – well, maybe you don’t want to, anymore. That’s alright. I just need to know, for uni, whether–”

“It’s fine,” Liam blurts out, breathless with relief. His shoulders relax, the grip on his fork loosening. “More than fine, babe. Just–” He gives a crooked smile, and Harry raises his eyebrows only slightly in response. “maybe don’t mention this.” He gestures between the two of them, holding his breath a little.

“Sure,” Harry says, and he starts grinning, “I was planning to talk about how you fucked me against your front door, but I can cut that bit out. No problem.”

“Shut it.” Liam grumbles with a smile, shoving a forkful of fried rice into his mouth as Harry laughs.

They’re on the sofa again, Watson at their feet and Leonardo Dicaprio running through the streets of Mombassa, when Harry continues as if it hasn’t been over an hour since that exact conversation. “Most of it’s observing, anyway.”

Liam drags his eyes away from _Inception,_ turning his head to the right to see Harry looking at him, eyes roving over Liam’s perplexed face. “Sorry?”

“The article,” Harry clarifies, one of his hands playing with Liam’s fingers, “There’s the questions, but a lot of it’s observational. Perception.”

“Alright,” Liam says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Anytime you want to ask something, though...” He trails off, smiles. Harry purses his lips to hold back his own before he’s turning back to the telly. It’s a sedate Friday night, Liam’s sure, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’s happier leaning against Liam’s shoulder than he is answering the text messages that seem to be flooding his phone.

The air gets thick, however, when the film finishes. He could offer to put another on, but Harry’s eyes bore into him and he realises he doesn’t exactly want to. But the transition into what they’ve been doing hasn’t felt as tense as it does now, even when Harry gets up and leads Liam by the hand to his own bedroom, kissing him so softly by the bed that the pressure’s almost non-existent.

His eyes feel heavy by the time they’re naked, Harry sitting on his thighs, fingering himself as Liam watches.

“Liam,” he breathes, and he blows his hair out of his face, “Hurry up.”

“Sorry, babe,” he apologises, quickly pulling Harry further into him by the hips, letting his cock slide between his cheeks. He bites back a groan as he slides the condom on, giving a few pulls before he adds a finger to Harry’s two, biting at Harry’s collarbones and trying not to thrust up and dislodge them both.

“You’re so beautiful,” Liam murmurs against Harry’s jaw, teeth scraping as he leans up to kiss him. “Has anyone ever told you?”

“Thank you,” Harry pants out, pushing back into Liam’s hand and letting his own fingers slide out, Liam’s replacing them. “I’d be more beautiful with your cock in me, though.”

Liam groans, this time in slight mortification. “Don’t make me laugh.”

His eyes catch Liam’s, and Liam’s sure he’d be smiling if he wasn’t concentrating on trying to get as much of Liam inside him at once, mouth parted as he pants. “I’m not making you do anything.”

Liam doesn’t bother replying, simply pulls out his sticky fingers and lines up, guiding Harry by the waist to lift up and then sink down, the both of them moaning loudly as they come together.

“Your neighbours–” Harry gasps as Liam thrusts up a bit, and Liam digs a hand into his curls, get his focus onto him.

“Forget about them,” he demands, pulling until Harry’s eyes flash, and then relaxing his grip. “It’s just me, babe.”

“I know,” Harry groans, his head dropping back to expose the tendons in his neck. Liam leans forward to lick, making a path down to his swallows and paying them the attention they deserve. “I know, I know, I know–”

Despite his enthusiasm, Harry’s pace slows. He’s breathing hard, and Liam knows that to go on like this they’ll have to keep taking breaks, Harry’s body fit but nowhere near the same stamina as Liam’s. The perks of living alone, he supposes.

He grabs Harry by the hips, shushing him quietly when he makes a broken sort of noise as they part. Liam pushes him back onto the bed, climbing over him and repositioning himself, sliding in with a stutter of his hips as Harry’s legs spread wide. His mouth hangs open now, his eyes closed as he fidgets under Liam, trying to thrust in time with him but not being able to get the timing right.

“Look at me,” Liam murmurs against Harry’s lips, watching his eyes blink open, his gaze settling on Liam’s. “That’s it.”

The rhythm comes easier then, the two of them moving in tandem, Harry sounding like he’s getting the wind knocked out of him with every thrust, his tattooed chest flushing red in the dim light of the room. The covers are all messed up beneath them, and Liam wants to laugh at the image that something so innocuous – that Harry under him looking like he belongs, like he does this every day – could make Liam’s dick twitch like it is, that it could steal his breath away so easily.

He delivers a punishing thrust, lost in the thought, that makes Harry arch his back, cock red and leaking. “Slow,” he cries out, and Liam almost stops. “Slower. _Slower._ ”

He lets himself breathe deep, bringing a hand up to brush under Harry’s eyes in a silent apology before he grinds into him, Harry’s hand grabbing at his arse and pulling him closer.

Liam doesn’t know how long they’re like that; Harry spread open and taking him slow and sweet and Liam trying desperately not to come.

Finally – _finally_ – Harry brings a hand to himself, and it only takes two pulls before he’s crying out, clenching around Liam and forcing him into orgasm in the most brutal of ways, Liam’s hips jerking and his eyes squeezing shut, head dropping to Harry’s bare shoulder.

Harry’s got a hand in Liam’s hair when he comes to, running his fingers through the strands and humming so quietly it’s almost nothing at all.

Liam’s trembling when he pulls out a minute later, tying off the condom and throwing it in the bin, landing heavily beside his partner and closing his eyes, chest heaving.

They lay there, side by side, for only a brief moment before Harry leans over him, pressing their lips together, slowly licking into Liam’s mouth, pulling away the tiniest bit so Liam has to follow, and follow, and follow – until they’re both sitting up, twisted into each other, Liam’s palm hot on Harry’s neck.

“Where did you come from?” Liam breathes, brushing his nose against Harry’s, looking down at his swollen lips.

Harry chuckles breathlessly, and Liam follows a bead of sweat that rolls down near his hairline with his eyes, kissing the trail it leaves behind only seconds later and tasting salt.

Liam tastes his lips again, and he thinks he could die here – he could sit and they could kiss and Liam could wither away without a thought, Harry’s neck underneath a hand and Liam’s chest shuddering with every inhale. Liam thinks he’d be fine to live out the rest of his limited days like this, if it meant he’d never lose it.

The thought enters his head like a battering ram – _Now,_ it tells him, _do it now or forever hold your peace._ Like it’s a twisted version of a wedding vow, or something.

“I’ve got to show you something,” he murmurs, feeling the brush of Harry’s lips against his with every word. Harry seems lazy, sated. Liam’s hesitant to change that, hesitant to disturb the tremble in his own throat; but he can’t stop thinking about it – hasn’t since Harry walked into his office that day – and it feels like maybe Harry might be okay with it now, might be able to look at it from the point of view of someone who actually _likes_ Liam for who he is, not what he can offer them.

“M’sleepy, Li,” Harry mumbles, falling back onto the bed, the sheets in disarray around him. Sprawled like that he looks like art, his naked body glistening with sweat in the heat of the room. Liam stops a moment to take him in, to relish in what he can touch and taste and use. Mutually, of course.

Harry flings an arm over his eyes dramatically, keeping up the act for only a few seconds before barely lifting his bicep high enough to peek at Liam through his lashes, grinning cheekily at him.

Liam ignores the twinge of his heart, instead choosing to give a laugh and slide off the bed, pulling on Harry’s ankle to get him standing as he shuffles past.

It seems odd, Liam thinks, as he brings in the locked box and places it on the bed. It seems odd to kneel on the floor, but Liam doesn’t want to be on the bed for this and the rug beneath them is comfortable enough to keep Liam from aching.

Harry sits up, cheek gone from his expression. He seems curious, peering around to see Liam pull the key from its taped hiding place on the underside of the bed frame and slotting it into the keyhole, turning it with a click.

“Come ‘round, would you?” Liam asks him, trying to hide the slight tremor in his voice. Harry shifts, moving to kneel next to Liam and face the box together, like some awful creature will come scuttling out of it – like something out of _Harry Potter_ , Liam thinks wildly. As if it’s anything close.

Liam puts both hands on the side of the lid, prepares to lift it – and halts.

“Promise you won’t...” He huffs, frustrated, clenching his jaw. He turns his head to eye Harry, whose gaze is fixed intently on the side of Liam’s face. They catch each other’s eyes, and Liam swallows down his nerves. “Please be... well, be nice.”

When he lifts the lid, there seems to be less in there than Liam remembers – after all, he’s never been into the more serious stuff, the kind of things that truly take hours-long conversations to hammer out the details. He’s tried them once or twice at clubs, but it never felt good – whether that was because it was with a stranger or because he didn’t like them at all, he’s not sure.

Harry lifts a hand, cautious, and brushes it over the silk material of the scarves. He’s awfully quiet.

“Silk doesn’t hurt as much,” Liam explains, trying to figure out the best way to express the thoughts rolling around in his head, the visions that flit across his mind. “Rope can be good, though. Burns.”

Harry’s hand pauses, but then continues over to the blindfold, fingertips grazing the material before forgoing it to hover over the wide, short candles. There are two, and Harry stares at the one that’s been used, the quick burned half-way.

“That’s not–” Liam starts, then huffs as he struggles to find the right way to say it, “It’s quick, just a bit of pain. Marks up the skin, so–” _So I can look at it hours later_ is how the sentence should finish, but Liam stops himself.

The subtler items are harder to explain. Harry seems to have no problem with the two vibrators.

He actually picks up the collar, turns it around in his hands like it’s particularly fascinating.

“I like the way it feels.” Liam blurts out, snapping his mouth closed when Harry looks at him, collar still in his hands. They stare at each other for a moment, and Liam can’t help the thoughts that swirl around ominously. Harry’s not giving anything away, and the worst comes to Liam’s mind – that he might find this disgusting, that he might find it _funny_. That he might want to dominate pops into Liam’s head, and that pushes him to clarify.

“You don’t... this isn’t necessary, alright?” Liam tries for, placing his hands over Harry’s so that he drops the collar back into the box. “It’s not a requirement. It’s just...” His eyes flit between Harry’s, whose own are a little wide, a little stunned. “I have some preferences. Think of them like, like...” He searches his mind for the word, brightening when he finds it. “Bonuses! Think of them like sexual bonuses...” He trails off at Harry’s amused smile. “Alright, maybe that’s not the best way to put it. It’s just an aspect of... of sex. That I like to explore.”

Harry’s still looking at him in that way when he pulls his hands from underneath Liam’s to cradle his face.

“I can do this for you,” he says, palms warm on Liam’s stubbled cheeks, “if it’s what you need.” He leans in, brushes his lips lightly over Liam’s once before pressing in much harder, much rougher.

Liam’s back is on the floor before he can realise, and Harry’s kissing him so thoroughly that Liam’s breath is caught in his chest.

“I can tie you up,” Harry murmurs in Liam’s ear, making him shudder at the feel of his lips, “Spank you, even.”

Liam grabs Harry by the waist, pushing him up and flipping them over more quickly than he would usually. Harry’s hair splays around him like a halo on the Persian rug, and his shocked expression turns into one of relish, his lips splitting into a grin, dimples carved into his cheeks.

“Or you can spank _me,_ ” he says, a little breathless, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, “I like that idea very much.”

“I like–” Liam licks his lips, looking down at the man beneath him and just _hoping._

“You like to be in control.” Harry concludes after a pause, and he takes one of Liam’s hands in his, guides it to circle his other wrist and _presses._ He stares at him, trusting. “So do it.”

 

***

 

“There are rules.” Liam explains later when the two of them are in bed, underwear in place. It’s easier to talk about this with some kind of barrier between them, and Harry had silently put his ragged boxer briefs back on, anyway, which had saved Liam that awkward conversation. He still feels a little unsettled by Harry’s quiet, even if he’d given Liam permission to follow through on all of this. But Liam knows – it’s easy to give permission before you really know what’s going to happen, and if he’s to avoid fucking up like he did last time, he constantly needs to check in with Harry about what he’s okay with.

“I thought there might be.” Harry says, his index finger shifting so his knuckles graze against Liam’s stubble idly, like Harry’s a bit bored of it all. Liam knows it’s likely a nervous gesture over boredom, but it makes his joints freeze up a bit, regardless.

“You’ll need a safe-word,” Liam tells him, swallowing thickly, “And you need to tell me if there are things you don’t even want to consider doing.”

Harry’s eyes flick to his, searching, before they dart back to his finger on Liam’s chin, only the slightest bit ticklish.

“I don’t,” he licks his lips, chewing at the bottom one until he decides to continue, “I don’t want to share you.”

“No,” Liam agrees, diaphragm feeling a lot less pressure at that, “I don’t want that either.”

“And I don’t,” Harry seems to have gained some confidence now, locking eyes with Liam and looking too young for this moment, “No name-calling. I don’t... nothing like that.”

“Alright,” Liam acquiesces. He’s only ever done it once, and that was because someone had specifically asked for it – he’s not much for putting someone down like that, even when they like it. “We don’t have to go through everything now. You can think about it.”

“No, y’know,” Harry scrunches his nose up, barrelling on despite Liam’s comforting words, “Bodily fluids.”

Liam’s lips quirk, but he understands. “Can I come on you?”

“Come is fine,” Harry says quickly, and his lips twitch, too, the words unsaid between them enough of an indicator of the kinds of things Harry likes.

Liam can’t help but clarify – after last time – a few of the things he feels will definitely come up, that maybe he’ll have to live without if Harry says no.

“What about,” Liam breathes deeply, bringing a hand up to loosely grasp Harry’s errant finger, letting their joined hands rest on the mattress between them. It seems harder to say it so explicitly, but he blurts out the words anyway. “Spanking. Wax. Is that... would that be okay?”

“I haven’t done them before,” Harry replies slowly, thoughtfully, gazing at Liam, “But I don’t see why not. It’s... it’s what the safe-word is for, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, shoulders dropping as the tension leaves him. “What do you want it to be?”

Harry hums thoughtfully, smiling. “I dunno. S’bit hard. That word’s gonna be tainted for life.”

Liam laughs, shaking his head the best he can against his pillow. “Well maybe it should be something you don’t like, then.”

“Hmm,” Harry frowns, and Liam waits with a small smile on his face for what will be an interesting choice. “I’m not a fan of avocados, honestly.”

“Avocado?” Liam asks, laughing again. Harry smiles, and it gets wider with every second Liam can’t stop laughing. “Are you even human?”

“Hey,” Harry defends himself, slow and amused, “It’s the texture, it’s all wrong.”

“Avocado,” Liam rolls his eyes with a smile. “Alright, babe. Avocado.”

“Don’t make fun,” Harry says, pouting a little, “It’s important.”

That sobers him up, and Liam makes sure to kiss Harry with determination, with precise thought about exactly where his lips are going.

“You’re right,” He says, pulling Harry’s bottom lip down and then watching as it bounces up again upon release, “It’s important.”

They don’t exactly have the time to put anything into practise until the next week. Harry kisses him long and hard before he leaves on Saturday afternoon, his phone buzzing like crazy in his jeans pocket. He needs more clothes, and he promised his friends he’d go out with them that night. Liam thinks it’s wise – any longer and he’s not sure he’d be able to pry his fingers away from Harry’s.

It’s better, anyway, that Harry think about it. Liam’s not sure it’s fully sunken in yet, and he knows that if he pushes too much too soon then Harry won’t come back. That’s the last thing Liam wants, even if it might be the best thing for both of them.

So instead they text. Harry tells him about his classes and Liam asks him about his favourite music. They go back and forth on old bands for a while, and then Liam has to go meet Freya in the studio and listen to her collaborate with his pick of producer. He tries not to let their slow progress get to him, but if he doesn’t have something substantial to bring back to the board in a few weeks, then things are going to get a lot harder for Freya.

He goes to the gym, now that Harry’s not at his flat every waking moment. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror, and he doesn’t touch himself when he showers off the sweat and grit of London after a particularly gruelling run around Kensington. Sometimes the outdoors is better than a treadmill and weights in a cool, grey room.

It’s Harry that brings it up first, when Thursday rolls around and he’s finally able to pop by, licking into Liam’s mouth languidly and making the both of them forget the front door’s wide open. It’s only when one of Liam’s neighbours – Charlie, the middle-aged businessman from China – coughs politely that they pull away, Liam shutting the door with a slight blush in his cheeks.

“Exhibitionism not a thing, then?” He remarks cheekily, and Liam pulls him close with a growl, biting into Harry’s dimples as he laughs, trying to get away.

Liam feels invigorated, is the thing – when Harry’s around, when he’s pushing into Liam’s space, his long limbs flung everywhere; Liam feels like he can do anything, really. He feels like he’s twenty again, awkward and only just getting into the gym and trying to figure out whether he has the guts to go for the whole singing deal. He feels filled to the brim with the possibility of a future, and the feeling is so foreign it’s like his feet have been swept from underneath him, Harry under his arm like this on a Thursday night, his hand on the inside of Liam’s thigh.

“I’ve been reading,” Harry says suddenly, turning to Liam as he plays with his lip, two ringed fingers fiddling about, “About, y’know.” He waves his hand in a gesture that means nothing at all.

“You can say it,” says Liam, trying not to laugh.

“BDSM, then,” Harry expands, doing nothing to stop Liam from tugging on his curls, “I’ve been reading, and there’s something I thought we could try.”

Liam lets his eyebrows shoot up, thumb and forefinger pausing in their caress of Harry’s beautiful hair. It might just be his favourite part about him.

“We can start small,” he says, throat tickling, “You don’t have to impress me.”

“It’s not,” Harry huffs, looking down at his lap. His hand drops from his mouth, and his thumb twirls his rings absentmindedly. Harry can say it’s not like that all he wants, but Liam knows most people let him lead in this scenario – for multiple reasons, but mostly because the whole system is built on trust, and they trust Liam to set the right pace.

 _Like that worked before,_ a voice mentions snidely. Liam ignores it.

“It’s not like that,” Harry continues, and his voice has turned soft, considering. His lashes seem thicker in the night time, the shadows of Liam’s overhead lights making his eyes seem larger, more reflective. Liam finds himself entranced. “It just stood out to me. That’s all.”

“Alright,” Liam placates, feeling himself slot into place. It’s like putting on an old favourite, like an outfit he’d forgotten about. It feels good, it makes him feel good. “What is it?”

“S’like,” Harry starts, eyes flicking up to Liam and then away as his mouth twists, “Asphyxiation? But not really,” He frowns, his mussed hair making him look sleepy and adorable, like he’s just woken up grumpy. Liam feels his heart pound. “It’s just pressure.”

Liam inhales. Liam exhales.

“On your neck.” He finishes, because it doesn’t seem like Harry is going to.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and then he finally looks at Liam properly. His pupils are a little wide, and Liam relishes in the slight pink of his cheeks.

“Come with me.” Liam tells him, standing and pulling Harry up behind him without pause. He strides through the main area to the bedroom, seeing Watson lift his curious head before he realises he can’t be bothered and goes back to sleep.

When they reach the bedroom, Liam closes the door softly behind them, taking off his shirt perfunctorily before turning to Harry, pulling his shirt over his head, his eyes following Harry’s curls when they fall back down onto his bare, muscular shoulders.

Harry swallows thickly as they stand in front of each other, the room quiet and their chests almost touching with every breath.

“Anytime you don’t want to do this, you have to tell me.” Liam reassures him at the look on his face, the way his eyes keep darting from Liam’s hands to Liam’s throat. Liam lifts his left hand slowly, carefully, to tilt Harry’s chin up, hold it between thumb and forefinger gently. “I’ll never be disappointed,” Liam says, moving infinitesimally closer, “This comes second to you,” Harry’s eyes finally catch his, wide and green and curious, “ _Always._ ”

The room is quiet again as Harry thinks, Liam’s thumb rubbing against his chin as they both stand there, shirtless. He wonders if this is what it felt like before – he can hardly remember through the haze of Harry. But he knows he felt excited, like he does now; he knows he felt a thrill run through him when Sophia said yes. He also knows he felt guilty when she safe-worded almost immediately, curling up and gasping and telling Liam to give her a minute.

It’s not how he wishes things had gone. He wishes she’d had the strength to say no to him; he also wishes he’d had the sense to realise nothing about what he likes was meant for her. He’d been young, he’d been selfish, and he’s paying for it now in droves. He knows what his punishment was, and he knows now he’s being given a second chance.

“Okay,” Harry whispers, and Liam lets himself come back to the room softly, his hand sliding down so his palm rests against the side of Harry’s neck, the meat of it feeling the bob of Harry’s throat as he swallows.

“What’s your safe-word, babe?” He asks him as Harry circles Liam’s wrist, welcoming Liam’s shift closer.

“Avocado. And I... I tap your side, when I can’t talk.” Harry mutters, lids fluttering as Liam leans down to kiss him, not bothering with anything but tenderness.

“And when do you use your safe-word, Harry?” Liam murmurs against his lips, opening his eyes and moving back to look into Harry’s properly.

“When I can’t–” Harry inhales sharply, swallowing again, “No. When I don’t _want_ to keep going.”

“Good,” Liam breathes, moving his hand from Harry’s neck to his nape, pulling slightly at his hair. “Brilliant, babe, you’re doing so well already.”

Harry’s exhale stutters out, jagged and wrecked as his eyes close. He licks his lips slowly, unaware of Liam’s focused gaze, and then waits.

“Before,” Liam starts, sliding his hand back to rest on the side of Harry’s neck, squeezing a bit, “during... or after?”

“During.” Harry blurts out, eyes opening and pupils adjusting to the light, his whole body shifting as close as he can get, his breath sounding hard-come by. Liam leans forward to kiss him again; gently, like me might break at anything firm or rough.

He turns them both, letting Harry sink back onto the bed and shuffle up so his head lies on a pillow, hair strewn around his head like it’s been artfully styled that way. Liam can’t stop staring at the way his chest heaves, his stomach going up and down with every breath of anticipation. The laurels on Harry’s hips make Liam want to bite, and he places his palms on Harry’s slight love handles, squeezing them until Harry’s eyes close, eyelashes looking as if they’re almost brushing his cheekbones from this angle. The feeling that sweeps over him in that moment is startling – that Liam holds the world in his hands. It’s like Harry lying back, legs splayed and cock already taking interest, is the ultimate display of trust. It is, Liam realises when he glides his hands from Harry’s hips over his belly to his nipples, pinching a bit and feeling his own dick twitch when Harry’s back arches slightly. Harry’s beneath him, lax but willing, and he’s offering up everything Liam never thought he could have again – the kinds of things he carries with him, guilt piercing his heart at the mere thought of them. Harry soothes it all with a touch, his fingers deftly tugging down his threadbare boxer briefs, exposing his dick. He gives himself an absent tug before he wriggles a bit, egging Liam on.

Liam bites his bottom lip hard, squeezing his eyes shut to throw off the rush of sound in his ears and the tremble in his thighs. He needs to last longer than this, but suddenly it’s like he’s so close to coming he can’t even stand the thought of pushing into Harry’s tight, wet heat. Not when he lies so loose underneath him, neck bared and chest flushed. God, Liam’s a wreck with it all.

“Liam,” Harry breathes, and Liam opens his eyes dutifully, blinking Harry back into existence. His lips are red from biting them, and Harry’s eyes are half-lidded, “If you don’t fuck me soon, I’m just going to come, anyway.”

“You don’t come until I tell you to.” Liam answers, a little dark, moving over Harry so he can press a bruising kiss to his lips and then pull away to rest his forehead on his nose briefly, already feeling stretched thin and spent. He backs off to grab a condom from his side drawer, but Harry makes a bitten-off noise, like an aborted objection.

Liam halts for only a few seconds before he continues, rubbing away the crease in Harry’s brow with the pad of a thumb, taking a mental note to talk about this later. He rolls the condom on himself, hips jerking up into his firm grip before he spreads lube all over his fingers.

“Can I?” Harry murmurs, and Liam looks up to see him fidget on the bed, arse moving back and forth like he’s trying to get relief from something, like the thought of his own fingers in his arse has him close. Liam sees his cock leak pre-come, dark pink and desperate.

“No.” Liam replies, and Harry shudders, his thighs spreading further as his hips thrust up into nothing. His nipples are hardened, the ink of his tattoos stark in the dimly lit room.

The first press into Harry has his moan echoing around the room, his head tilted back with his fists clenched in Liam’s pillow on each side of his head – almost as if he was going for his hair but got distracted. He feels slick around Liam’s fingers, like Liam could slide in with his cock and it’d be _fine._ He grips the base of his dick at the thought, refusing to lose it.

Harry’s breathing heavily, hips punching up into the air with every push of Liam into him, and he jerks when Liam reaches three fingers, scissoring and stretching and deliberately avoiding Harry’s prostate.

The only way to describe the sound Harry makes when Liam removes himself is a whimper – high and short, subconscious and vulnerable. Liam loves it.

“Calm down,” Liam hushes softly, moving to position himself and then pressing in slowly, a leisurely drag that has Harry’s mouth dropping open, the hair at his temples damp. Liam feels similarly affected, but the way Harry’s eyes flutter as Liam places his palm on his Adam’s apple centres him, makes the shaky feeling in his limbs turn to hot metal, sharp and clear and burning through his skin like it’s tissue paper.

He waits for Harry’s eyes to lock with his, and when he doesn’t see any questions, any hesitance, he presses down slowly but surely – not enough to leave Harry without oxygen, but enough for every inhale to sting in his chest. He thrusts up hard just before he releases, and Harry gasps, chest absolutely heaving as his fists clench harder in the pillow, body lazy as Liam takes him.

“Pressure?” Liam checks, caressing Harry’s throat with his thumb, feeling power rocket through him. His veins are alight with it, and his thighs clench spasmodically with the effort he’s taking not to orgasm. _God,_ he thinks, relishing in the swirl of feelings, _this is everything._

“Yeah,” Harry croaks out, and he inhales sharply as Liam thrusts again, hard and rough for a few seconds before reverting back to slow, “S’good.” He’s slurring, so Liam waits a little longer this time, pushing into Harry slowly as he waits. Two minutes pass, and then another five.

He captures Harry’s half-lidded gaze again, and then he tightens his grip, lets his palm rest more heavily on Harry’s neck, watching the way his eyes flutter closed and his nostrils flare, his chest lifting from the bed as he tries to wriggle both closer and further away. Liam counts _four, five, six,_ and thrusts deep, Harry shoved up the bed as he cries out, losing breath, Liam’s skin tingling in the aftermath. _Ten, eleven, twelve,_ and he releases quickly. Harry’s head lolls to the side, and Liam lets his right hand drift down, graze the head of Harry’s cock. He jolts, and then he’s dribbling more and more come. Liam rubs over it, brings his hand up to place at Harry’s lips.

His red neck lifts off the bed, and then he’s sucking on the space between thumb and forefinger and Liam groans, pace quickening unexpectedly.

“One more.” Harry whispers minutes later against the side of Liam’s face, the both of them shifting on the bed with the force of Liam’s thrusts, low sounds coming from Harry’s throat every time Liam pushes in a bit harder, his dick flirting over Harry’s prostate.

Liam lifts his head from Harry’s neck to kiss him softly, slowing his thrusts until he’s grinding into Harry. He stays where he is, lips brushing against lips, when he presses down again.

 _Eleven, twelve,_ he counts, feeling Harry’s sharp inhales against his mouth, short and quick because he can’t quite get enough air, _fourteen, fifteen, sixteen,_ and lets go, leaving Harry’s throat bare and gasping as he suddenly jerks his hips hard, over and over and over and letting himself push into Harry’s prostate, head pounding as Harry cries out again and again, eyes squeezed shut and coming between them, Liam’s stomach churning and his pleasure coming over him in waves as he follows soon behind, breathless and chained to Harry, his bones solid and his muscles precise in their movements. He feels _all there_ as he slips out, coming to rest on his side by Harry. He brings a steady hand up to brush at his fly-away curls, turning Harry’s head gently by the jaw and waiting for his eyes to flutter open.

“Did so well,” Liam murmurs when he can see Harry’s blown pupils. He lets his thumb brush over Harry’s bottom lip, back and forth, sticky with come. “So good.”

The younger man shudders, and Liam lets his right hand slide down to cradle his neck, the softest weight, as he inspects the skin for marks, makes sure he’s alright.

“ _Liam,_ ” whispers Harry, and he sounds a little distraught – like he can’t quite get back down to Earth.

“I know, babe,” Liam whispers back, and he curls his shoulders over Harry, pushes Harry’s hair behind his ear and smiles gently, “It’s a lot, I know.”

Harry’s lethargic when Liam has them showering, wiping a flannel over him carefully, soap sudding up his skin and the heat of the spray making it flush red. Liam kisses him against the wall, cradling the back of his skull like it’s precious and waiting until Harry’s lips get a little firmer, more confident, before he turns off the taps and dries them both with the fluffiest towels he owns. He brings the two of them back to the couch in their briefs because the bed is a mess. He’ll have to strip it down later.

He leaves a full glass of water on the coffee table, along with a sliced apple, and lets Harry lean on him, his long, almost-naked body melting into Liam’s arms as the telly plays something innocuous in the background.

“You should eat, Haz,” Liam tells him ten minutes in, his hand buried in Harry’s curls and absently scratching at his scalp. “You’ll be hungry.”

Harry grumbles, but he picks up the plate after taking a few gulps of his drink. Liam lets his hand rest on the small of his naked back, watching with a smile.

“You alright?” Liam asks once he’s done with his food. He’s still leaning his elbows on his knees, and he’s been watching _Antiques Roadshow,_ rapt. He leans back into Liam at the question, twisting so they can have a conversation. Liam brushes his hair away from his face, even if it’s unnecessary. It makes him feel better, and Harry isn’t complaining if the way he chews at his bottom lip is anything to go by. Liam holds back his frown at his silence, though, unused to it. “We don’t have to do it again if you don’t want.” Liam licks his lips, swallowing thickly. “We don’t have to do anything.”

“I want to.” Harry tells him suddenly, the slightest rasp to his tone. Liam’s eyes flick down to his neck, pink, and back up again.

Liam leans forward and kisses him. “I like you,” he whispers against Harry’s lips, eyes opened slightly to see Harry’s resting on Liam’s mouth, intent. “I like you so much.”

Harry doesn’t say anything; but when they kiss, Liam can feel him smile.

 

***

 

Harry doesn’t stop texting him the next day, verbose and enthusiastic. Liam feels his heart flutter a bit, but pushes it all aside. Harry’s been more than enough, and he doesn’t need his complicated feelings, all caught up in play, to ruin what they’ve established. Harry didn’t safe-word. Harry came so hard he couldn’t come back down. Liam considers himself lucky he met him at all.

It makes sense, then, that the date sort of slipped by him. It’s not until he’s walking into the office on the Monday – after a weekend of nothing but cuddling and sharing dinners with Harry – to Zayn’s sorry eyes and all his meetings rescheduled, that it registers.

It bowls him over, and Liam frosts up his office walls and sinks heavily into his desk chair as the crushing weight pushes down on him, his shoulders hunching over as he leans his forehead on the edge of the desk, the ache of hard mahogany barely a punishment.

He’s not sure how long he stays like that, but Zayn tells him quietly to check his e-mail over the inter-com, and he sees requests for press statements, a short one from Freya’s producer asking him to come by the studio the next day.

Usually he’s a wreck the day after, too, and he doesn’t know how to cope with this, suddenly. The pressing in of all the guilt, the memories he usually tucks away so neatly now bursting at the seams; his Mother’s happy crying, his Dad’s brusque but thoughtful manner, his sister’s smile, Nicola’s hands running through his hair–

He doesn’t reply to Harry’s texts, and he leaves the office nearing eleven, not wanting to go home to his empty flat and hoping, once he remembers, that Watson forgives him for not being around for dinner.

He can barely function, but Watson needs him, doesn’t he? Liam loves that stupid, drool-y dog.

He doesn’t expect to see Harry sitting outside his penthouse door.

“Don’t think Mr Chen quite understood why I was loitering,” Harry tries to joke once Liam’s in front of him, but the grip Liam has on his shoulder bag goes white, and then he closes his eyes and simply tries not to snap.

When he opens them again, Harry is standing. He’s got a tiny frown on his face, and Liam’s usual urge to rub it away comes over him but– well, it’s best if they don’t touch right now. Liam doesn’t do this – he doesn’t ever spend this day with other people, let alone someone he’s sleeping with.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Harry probes quietly, moving closer. Liam freezes up, hoping Harry doesn’t notice – but Liam’s always underestimated him, hasn’t he? Harry’s always known more than he’s let on, and he stops shortening the gap between them when Liam tenses. His face clears, like he realises he’s not wanted. _You’re wanted,_ Liam wants to shout, _you’re always wanted._ “I can go.”

Liam tries not to say anything – it’ll just come out mean, or he’ll say something he can’t ever take back – and simply stares at him, willing him silently to understand.

He steps forward, only two feet away by now. “Liam–” He startles when his outstretched hand gets caught in Liam’s vice grip, wrist grinding under the pressure. It’s like that night whenever ago, outside Liam’s bathroom. Liam realises, then, what’s going to happen – what should’ve happened from the minute he walked into the office this morning and remembered, lost in his head and overcome and, most of all, out of control.

He doesn’t let go as he opens the door, as he strides quickly through his flat to his bedroom. He pushes Harry away from him – not as hard as the last time this happened, but enough for Harry to stumble back a step, eyes wide. His t-shirt’s ridden up, exposing a sliver of his tummy, and Liam turns away so he doesn’t do something they haven’t spoken about properly yet, something a bit more intense than what’s rushing into his mind right now.

“Undress. Get on the bed.” Liam orders over his shoulder, and walks into his closet. He hunches against the drawers in there, a shaky hand over his eyes. Deep breaths in and out, and then he’s undressing as well, without thought. He walks out naked and sees Harry lying against the pillows, half-hard and tugging on strands of his hair, eyes glazed a bit. He snaps his gaze to Liam when he re-enters, but Liam simply reaches under the bed for the key, and then slides out the box from where he’d stashed it after showing Harry that first time.

He grabs the silk and shuts the box, shoves it back under. He climbs onto the bed, pushing Harry down by his shoulders roughly and taking a wrist between his hands, tying the silk there before pulling it toward the closest bedpost and tying the other end to it. Harry watches with eyes only a little wide, limbs loose and malleable. Liam does the same for the other wrist, and then Harry’s spread out on the bed, his hair all about the place and his cock fully hard now, but not dripping. Not yet.

There’s a bit of give between Harry’s wrists and the bed posts, which means when Liam yanks Harry down by the hips to get him into a better position, his shoulders stretch only slightly to accommodate, his throat bobbing with a thick swallow.

Liam feels an invisible blanket come over him, his shoulders relaxing, no longer bunched with stress. He’s got Harry’s calves spread, resting on his thighs. He finds himself kneading them, a little softer than earlier, before he pushes them away from each other, spreading Harry until Liam can see him pink and tight.

“What’s your safe-word?” Liam manages to get out, licking his palm sloppily and then getting a hand on Harry, watching the way his arms twitch, unable to move from their bindings.

“A– avocado.” Harry stutters, low and helpless, and then Liam leans in, licking up Harry’s length and sucking on the head, feeling the slight kick of Harry’s heels against his sides but hearing no words, no begging to stop.

He doesn’t linger long, instead moving down and licking into Harry with only the thought that it’s awfully convenient, having someone so ready for him. Like Harry knows they might get each other off at any moment; always conscious of it, like it’s all Harry thinks about.

It makes Liam groan; and then Harry groans, the vibrations making his thigh shake under Liam’s palm. He's pressing Harry’s left leg away from his right, getting more settled between them.

“ _Oh,_ ” It’s high-pitched, surprised, when Liam continues to eat him out minutes later, tongue persistent and wet, “Oh, God.”

Liam flicks his eyes up briefly, jaw barely aching, to see Harry’s arms yanking hard on his restraints, his eyes squeezed shut as if he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

This has never been Liam’s favourite thing to do, but he knows – and is being proven right – that it allows him the best sense of control, of having power over someone. Harry, with his hands tied, with his legs splayed and held down, with his cock ignored; he’s Liam’s in this very moment. There’s no doubt that Liam could say or do anything, and Harry would nod and cry out and plead that he don’t stop, if only it meant Harry could come.

“ _Liam,_ ” moans Harry, hips bucking up. Liam pushes his thigh harder into the mattress, his other hand pressing into Harry’s hip. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He thinks he could grow to like it a lot more, though, with the way Harry’s struggling so beautifully, crying out every time Liam licks into him harder. He’s leaking from the tip, now, and Liam pulls back after a sharp cry to grab him roughly and twist him around, his dick against the covers and his arms crossed over each other.

“Liam–” He sounds dazed, confused, but then Liam leans in and starts in on his arse all over again and then he’s pushing his hips up into Liam’s face and down into the mattress, desperate and panting. His head’s dropped between his shoulders, forearms crossed, and Liam leans his face away only to land a smack on his cheek with the flat of his hand.

Harry jerks under him, and his right arse cheek blooms red. He’s slick between, and Liam spanks him again, this time slightly lower, at the crease between bottom and thigh.

He makes an unintelligible noise, throaty and wrecked, and Liam slaps him again.

He cries out, then, high-pitched, and Liam smooths a hand over the red marks before he switches up, hearing the smack throughout the room as Harry’s left cheek burns, his hips pressing into the mattress so hard it must be painful.

Liam grabs him by the hips again and pulls him up, spreading him open and licking into him without a word, pinching Harry’s cheeks against the red marks and enjoying the way he wrenches away, only to come back when Liam gets his tongue in him.

“Liam, Liam, don’t stop,” Harry’s begging him, but Liam needs this more right now – more than Harry knows – so he pulls away. Harry whines, pushing his arse back only to touch nothing.

Liam manhandles him back around again, Harry’s arms outstretched as he huffs out a breath, torso long and lean. His dick bobs, hard and ignored against his groin. Liam grasps it, starts pumping with one hand and letting the other reach around, push a finger into a Harry. He’s gone, then, thighs twitching as he comes up his chest, splatters of come every which way.

Despite the recent orgasm, his eyes are razor sharp when Liam starts touching himself, fast and firm and panting with the effort as he leans over Harry.

“Please,” Harry begs, voice strained, “come on my face?” His eyes are almost wet as he tilts his head, exposing more of his cheeks, “ _Liam._ ”

It’s like the orgasm gets punched out of him. Liam hunches over as he spurts all over Harry’s chest, shuddering, breath rattling with every exhale. Harry moans, feet pushing at the bed as if he’s still trying to get out of the silk, hips fidgeting on the covers. His spent cock twitches, and Liam leans forward to kiss him slowly, for minutes, before he manages to get a flannel from the bathroom and wipe him down, ignoring Harry’s piercing gaze.

He unties him tenderly, rubbing away the redness of Harry’s wrists with his fingers and leaning down to kiss him again once he’s free.

“You okay?” Harry mutters against Liam’s lips, and Liam huffs out a dry chuckle as he lands heavily on his back, staring up at the off-white ceiling.

“I should be asking you that.” He says to the room, trying not to let the lump in his throat sound too obvious. Harry shifts, and then he’s leaning on an elbow next to Liam, his other hand coming up to play with Liam’s right earlobe.

The both of them are silent for a while, and Liam’s thinking he might get under the covers and sleep, actually, when Harry breaks the quiet.

“D’you want to talk about it?”

Liam swallows before he turns his head, Harry’s face close to his and looking a little alien given the angle, half on its side like it is. He stares at him a moment, taking in Harry’s still flushed cheeks and sweaty temples, the sharp cut of his jaw in contrast to the soft expression on his face, his gentle eyes. Liam pulls him into him, hand on the back of Harry’s head guiding his face into Liam’s neck. The paced breath against his collarbone calms him, and Liam swallows once more before explaining.

“They died today.” He says, and briefly wonders whether it’s gone into tomorrow by now. “My family.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, but he brings up his free arm and drapes it over Liam, playing with his earlobe again. It’s strangely comforting.

“I don’t–” He inhales and then exhales deeply, knowing he should be feeling lost but only feeling the way Harry’s lips brush his skin, dry and fond. “I don’t do this with people. I don’t...” He clenches his jaw, then unclenches. “My last girlfriend, she didn’t do this with me. I’m sorry– I’m sorry I, like, attacked you–”

“ _No,_ Liam,” urges Harry, lifting his head and turning Liam’s face toward his, frown on his face, “It’s not like that, yeah? That’s not what happened.”

“I just–” He struggles to find the words, eyes flicking between Harry’s green ones, “You’ll tell me, won’t you? If you don’t want something?”

“Avocado.” Harry states, and he smiles wide, amusement in his eyes. “Disgusting fruit.”

Liam chuckles, not entirely convinced, but he lets Harry kiss him.

“You should get tested,” Liam says quietly after a moment, pulling back a bit. Harry frowns, and Liam clarifies, “You asked me to come on your face, babe.”

Liam wasn’t sure he could make Harry blush at all, considering the way _he’s_ the one who’s fumbling and awkward when they’re together. But the slightest hint of pink hits Harry’s cheeks at that, and Liam holds back a smile.

“Fine,” Harry sighs, and he avoids Liam’s eyes. “You too, then.”

“Me too.” Liam confirms.

And it’s like with those two conversations, a weight he didn’t know was there gets lifted. Liam doesn’t have to explain away his weird behaviour; doesn’t have to explain why he’s into all this dominance stuff, either. Harry just knows, now, that Liam needs it sometimes – when there are things he can’t control, when he’s feeling stressed and wrung out. They don’t exactly talk about it, but it’s like they have. Liam feels relief run through his veins, palatable.

It’s only when the cocoon of Liam’s flat fails that he questions any of it at all.

“Yes, flower,” Liam sighs through the phone on Wednesday night, the trolley making a grating noise as one of the wheels struggles to keep up. Harry walks beside him awfully close, his hand resting on top of Liam’s on the trolley’s handle. The thing’s half-full, and Liam has to stop Harry from dumping whole packs of biscuits into it, cheeky smile on his face.

Eventually they stop about three quarters of the way down the aisle, Fleur rambling on the other line and entirely too distracting for Liam to be able to strike items off of his mental grocery list. Harry turns Liam around to face him, sneaking a cool hand under his shirt to rest against his bare stomach, stealing his heat. Liam twists his lips, trying to play at being annoyed but relents, regardless. He brings his right hand up to brush Harry’s hair behind his ear, making noises of assent for Fleur over the phone.

“We’ll come to a game, I promise.”

“We?” Fleur asks, and Liam can hear the frown through his mobile, “Who’s we?”

“Erm,” Liam says, and Harry’s lips downturn in his efforts not to smirk, “Me and Harry, flower. My friend, remember?”

He turns his head at movement out of the corner of his eyes, Fleur still demanding in his ear. “Is he your _boyfriend?_ ”

There’s a woman further down the aisle; looks to be about Liam’s age, maybe a little older. Their eyes catch, and then her gaze slides down to Liam’s hand in Harry’s hair, and then further down to Harry’s hand under his shirt. She frowns, looking between them. Liam can see when she makes the correct assumption. Liam’s button-down shirt, his expensive watch, his gelled back hair and neatly trimmed stubble – all of that opposite Harry’s band t-shirt and skinny jeans seems rather ludicrous, and her frown deepens before her face hardens. Liam swallows, looks away, tuning back into the one-sided conversation going on in his ear.

“Leeyum?” Fleur nags, “ _Leeeeeyum?_ ”

“Er,” Liam stalls, and Harry’s looking down the aisle at the woman, his expression unreadable. Liam’s chest feels tight. “No, flower. But we’ll come, I promise you.”

She seems appeased, and he rings off with a goodbye, turning back to the shelves and pushing something random into the trolley, bringing Harry’s attention back to him.

“Liam Payne,” Harry starts, his voice taking on a weird tone, as he brings a hand up like a microphone to his mouth, “Weirded out by random women in supermarkets, aware of the age gap between he and his paramour–”

“Paramour?” Liam laughs, nerves fading away in the blink of an eye.

“–but it means nothing,” Harry continues, and then his voice loses its joking quality, transforming into something Liam’s not really heard from him before, his eyes locked with Liam’s, “because he knows they care about each other, and what some stranger thinks doesn’t matter.”

It’s so easy, when he says it like that. Liam wishes it were that easy, but he knows – like he’s been telling himself from the beginning – that they have an expiration date.

“So, you’re still writing that article, then?” Liam asks when they’re packing away the food in the kitchen after their shop, trying to find a place for the abundance of fresh herbs Harry insisted he buy.

It’s a bit of a pointless question, because Harry has been honest with him – said that he’d still have to write the article, but he wouldn’t publish anything about _them._ Liam just can’t seem to get that tone of voice out of his head, though; Harry pretending to commentate on what was happening. It was a joke, he knows, but it’s stuck with him (as they tend to do).

There’s the sound of rustling, and Liam turns to see Harry’s got his phone to his mouth, the voice memo app open.

“Liam asks questions he already knows the answer to,” Harry states, and he’s smirking, his cupid’s bow lips making him look arrogant with the gesture, “He also knows I’m going to be perfectly objective,”

“Oh, do I?” Liam humours him, turning to lean against the counter, all the cold stuff put away but everything else still lying in bags up against the cupboards on the floor.

“As there’s no way,” Harry continues, and he’s grinning cheekily now in preparation for his punchline, “That I’m going to write about his thick, fat cock splitting–”

“ _Harry!_ ” Liam scolds him, a little scandalised that this is on recording.

“–me open, his come all over me–”

“ _Jesus Christ._ ” Liam groans, rushing forward to put an end to this.

“No!” Harry shrieks, laughing as Liam attempts to pry the phone from his hands. He brings it up to his mouth as he tries to fend him off. “I’m gonna be objective!” He’s cackling into the phone, squirming away from Liam. “I promise! I won’t talk about your O-face!”

“ _Harry!_ ” Liam exclaims, fondly exasperated, before he manages to steal the phone and press stop. “You’re ridiculous.” He shakes his head, grinning.

“I can keep going if you want,” Harry suggests, and barrels on without permission, “I solemnly swear that I won’t talk about you tying me up.”

“ _Harry._ ” Liam warns, pulling him into him. Their chests collide, Harry still grinning.

“And I promise I won’t talk about you fucking me on the kitchen counter.”

Liam frowns. “We haven’t done that.”

Harry grins wider, if possible. “No time like the present, Liam.”

 

***

 

They’ve been sleeping with each other for the better part of a month when Harry asks Liam to meet his friends.

“It’s not a big deal,” He says over his shoulder, fluffing up the rice to go with their meal as Liam sets the table, “It’s just a small get together, and for once everyone’s goin’ to be there.”

It twists and turns in Liam’s gut, but he doesn’t have an excuse to say no – at least, nothing that would appease Harry. Saying _I don’t want to get too close to you because it’ll just hurt when you leave_ isn’t exactly lovely conversation, even if it’s honest.

“You don’t have to do this,” Liam says instead, later when they’re watching telly with Watson snoring between them, “It’s okay, y’know. I know it’s hard to explain.”

Harry knows what he’s talking about immediately, which makes Liam want to frown – maybe he was thinking about it, too; about how strange it is, to be bringing his thirty-something kind-of boyfriend to a party full of twenty year olds. Liam’s sweating just thinking about it.

“You’re not something to explain away, Liam,” Harry tells him, and he reaches across Liam’s large dog to take his hand, entwine their fingers. “You’re my boyfriend, and I want you to meet my friends because both you and they are important to me.”

“That’s what we are, then?” Liam asks, voice rough as he stares at the telly without blinking. “Boyfriends?”

There’s a long pause, and Liam’s _just_ curious enough to turn his head back to Harry, who’s staring at him evenly.

“Yes,” he says simply, squeezing Liam’s hand once before letting go to twirl Watson’s ears. The Great Dane sighs long and low. “So, you’ll come?”

“Alright,” Liam acquiesces, still feeling funny but loving the smile that appears on Harry’s face at his answer, “When is it?”

So it’s only days later that Harry’s telling him to put on the white t-shirt and suede sports jacket, a classic black. Liam steps into light blue denim, a little ripped, and feels like he’s trying to slip into a skin that’s not his.

“You look lovely.” Harry compliments him, tapping Liam’s curly quiff. It’s not as big as it’s been in the past, but he’s been growing out his hair some, liking the way Harry always wants to pull on it. He’s got some scruff but it’s tame, for the most part. He probably should’ve shaved for this, but it’s too late now.

“We should stay in,” Liam blurts out, watching the way Harry’s silly shirt reveals just the smallest hint of his tattoos, the tiniest bit sheer it is. It’s got flamingos all over it, and Liam had wanted to laugh but Harry just looks too good to deny, his thighs encased in tight black jeans. He’s got on a pair of ratty converse that have seen better days, as he insists it’s nothing formal. “Meet your friends another time.”

Harry turns around, mouth open to argue – but there must be a certain look on Liam’s face, because Harry closes his mouth with a snap, and then he’s walking over to kiss him, tongue lapping at the roof of Liam’s mouth.

They separate a while later, and Harry swears when he checks the time, his swollen lips looking entirely too tempting.

“Stop trying to distract me,” Harry complains, wiping at his mouth, “We’ve got to go.”

It’s less a get together and more one hundred per cent a party. They don’t even knock, just open the door to a dingy flat in Brixton and walk in, Harry’s hand firm in Liam’s. There are groups around the room, with a hotchpotch dance floor in the centre, sofas shoved aside to accommodate. They’ve hired a DJ, which is surprising; but Harry had said all his friends were musician types – and if not that, then into art or writing.

Harry seems to be searching for something because he’s tugging on Liam’s hand intently, ignoring the stares he’s getting from men and women alike as the music makes the floor vibrate, and guiding Liam through to another room, where the sofas haven’t been moved and there’s a fair amount of smoke in the air.

It’s a little quieter in here, and Liam’s thankful that he can hear Harry as he calls out.

“Louis!” Harry pulls Liam closer to him, and Liam sees a man with a sharp face look up, hair soft and brushed to the side with eyes very blue. Louis, Liam surmises, passes off the bong in his hands to the person sitting next to him before he pushes himself off the sofa, stumbling over a few legs before he reaches them by the door, everyone else too consumed with their weed or their conversation to take much notice of them.

“Harold,” greets Louis, pulling Harry down and into him for a hug. Liam’s hand slips from his, and he finds himself the recipient of a stare over Harry’s shoulder, shifting from one foot to the other uncomfortably instead of staring back. It’s like _he’s_ the one who’s twenty, wondering why anyone wants to be friends with him at all – not thirty-two, the owner of his own successful record label. With one glance, Louis has deconstructed any kind of confidence Liam’s managed to build up since Harry suggest he meet him at all. “And this must be Payno.”

“Right,” Liam says, for lack of anything else to say, “Nice to meet you, Louis.” He offers a hand to shake, but Louis ignores it.

“You’ve met Niall, yeah?” He asks instead, and Liam drops his hand, letting Harry slip his own into it once it’s down by his side again, “Come join us, we’re just smoking up.”

“Sorry about him,” Harry apologises, mouth to Liam’s ear to be heard discreetly, “He gets a bit iffy when he’s high.”

“S’okay.” Liam says, even if it’s not, really.

“I’m just goin’ to grab some drinks, yeah?” He kisses Liam’s cheek, and Liam tries not to flush. It seems weird, here, all of a sudden – in front of people they know. It shouldn’t. Liam’s not ashamed, really. He just... feels odd.

Liam makes his way over to Louis on the sofa, plonking himself down in a place where Harry can join him when he gets back, fiddling with his jacket and not really knowing what to say when he thought he’d left all this behind a decade ago. Fuck, a decade ago and Harry was a _child._

_Don’t think about it, you knob._

“Liam Payne,” A voice says, and Liam turns his head toward the floor where a shock of blond hair greets him. Niall. Liam sort of knows him, at least.

“Niall,” Liam replies, because he doesn’t know Niall’s last name. There’s an awkward pause before he continues. “How’re you, then?”

“Yeah, alright,” Niall says, and his eyes are a bit red. Liam wonders whether there’s anyone in this room that isn’t as high as a kite. “How’s Harry, then? Barely see the lad these days.”

Liam scratches at his temple, even though it’s not itchy. “Yeah, err... he’s good, yeah.”

“You takin’ care of him, then?” Niall asks, and then he’s being pushed over, falling onto the floor with a groan.

“Shut it, Nialler. Don’t be a twat.” Louis snarls, turning back to Liam with his arm outstretched, face curious. “Fancy some?”

Liam looks down to see the bong Louis was holding before, and his stomach twists. He’s not an innocent flower – Liam dabbled back in the day, when he had the time and it felt like something fun and new. But since... _since,_ he hasn’t wanted to go at it again. Headlines, for one. Then there’s just the fact he’s got no one to do it with, and he always felt it was a bit sad to smoke up alone. Now, though, after everything – he doesn’t like the way he remembers it feeling. Like he’s all loose and pliant. Like he doesn’t have control over his own body.

“I’m fine, actually.” Liam answers, a tad too late. Louis’ eyes narrow, and then he shrugs, like he doesn’t give a damn what Liam does or doesn’t do. Which is probably the case.

Thankfully, Harry comes stumbling into the room then, two cups in his hands and his dimples flashing them all.

“Hi,” he breathes once he sits down heavily next to Liam, one of his legs almost over the top of his. He passes him a plastic cup.

“Hey,” Liam replies, shooting him a small smile. He brings the cup up to sniff at it subtly, trying not to crinkle his nose at such a strong stench of alcohol. Much like the weed, he’s lost his taste for it. _Bad kidney doesn’t help, either,_ he thinks wryly. Light beer’s about the only thing he can stomach these days. He should’ve said something, but Harry’s smile and his bright eyes just make Liam smile in return, sipping lightly at the drink and letting Harry settle against him, Liam’s arm over the back of the sofa. They’re not touching, and he feels himself calm a little.

That’s the problem, he thinks. He feels like every move he makes, he’s getting judged. If he’s too affectionate with Harry, it’ll come off as creepy – even if Harry’s reciprocating. If he’s not affectionate at all, he imagines he’ll come off as domineering and cold. But he just doesn’t bloody well know where to put his hands, does he?

“Haz?” Louis asks, and Liam snaps back to Louis offering the bong to Harry now, eyebrows raised.

“Nah.” Harry replies, waving him off and wiggling back into Liam a bit more. Liam tries not to move.

“Alright, then,” Louis announces, but it doesn’t seem alright – not with the way he’s looking between them, like they’re a puzzle he’s trying to crack. “Have you seen Grimshaw’s hair? God, what a fucking riot.”

And then the conversation’s lost to him, because he doesn’t know who Grimshaw is, or why Harry’s scrunching his nose up as Louis insults him. He then doesn’t know about Louis’ internship, and why he hates it. Then Niall’s talking about someone called Bressie, and Louis is teasing him for that, and mostly Liam just feels like he’s a stray piece of thread, ready to unravel and just waiting to be yanked off the cloth, discarded in the bin because no one wants a stray thread about. They’re annoying and they ruin the rest of the cloth, don’t they?

Maybe _Liam_ is a little high, now. The second-hand smoke can’t be helping him.

A respectable amount of time later, he feels, he excuses himself to get more drinks. His own is barely touched, but Harry passes Liam his empty cup with a brush of his fingers and a slow smile and then Liam’s in the kitchen, trying to figure out what kind of punch Harry likes best. He knows he loves tequila, but that’s as far as it’s gotten in the realm of favourite alcoholic beverages.

He must spend too long – his own beer a third empty in his hand as he still contemplates the punch bowls, two girls peering into the fridge by the corner – because Harry appears, slipping in behind Liam and biting at his clothed shoulder.

“Mmm, suede.” He acknowledges, like Liam’s got any sort of clue what he’s on about. “What’s taking so long?”

“Sorry,” Liam mutters, frowning down at the punch, “Wasn’t sure what you wanted.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry says, taking his empty cup from Liam and scooping some drink from the nearest bowl. “There we go. All done.”

The girls who had been raiding the cold food supply leave, a backwards glance at Harry with his flamingos before Liam can’t see them anymore.

“Babe,” he starts, turning to face Harry, whose expression is open and waiting, “I think I should go, yeah? You stay, you’re having fun.”

“What?” Harry laughs, and his face scrunches up. He’s a bit of a lightweight, Liam realises, but he’s not too far gone, yet. “Liam, no, come on. We haven’t even danced yet.”

Dancing. God, Liam doesn’t want to dance. Not in front of all of these people. _Jesus._

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, and all the laughter has left his tone, his manner. He shuffles nearer, hands on Liam’s waist. “Liam?”

“ _Fuck._ ” Liam mutters, feeling foolish as he lifts a hand to rub over his face tiredly. Who was he kidding, thinking this would be anything but a disaster? He’s an idiot, hoping that this would work out – not only when Harry obviously has so many other choices just at this party alone, but that his friends don’t seem to care for Liam at all; and that Liam’s twelve years older than him and playing a role he’ll never be able to keep up forever. Liam can’t be this cool, older bloke Harry wants. He looks down at his drink, every embarrassing emotion swishing about his innards.

“I just feel...” He trails off, picking at the label of his beer. Harry pushes in closer, swings Liam’s beer away so their hips can bump into each other. Liam looks up, locks eyes. “I feel old.”

“You _are_ old,” Harry teases, pulling at Liam’s jacket to grind into him, but his grins fades at Liam’s frown. “Hey,” he says, letting go to frame Liam’s face, blunt thumbnails scratching at his cheeks, “Hey, hey, hey,” he tilts his head, meets Liam’s eyes and pulls them back up so neither of their necks will ache in the morning. “You’re... you’re mature, alright?” Liam scoffs, trying to look away but Harry’s hold is firm. “No, listen,” Harry leans forward, licking his pink lips and being an absolute distraction, “No one, _no one–_ ” he emphasises, close enough now to brush his nose against Liam’s in a caress, playful and tender. Liam feels his grip on his beer bottle go wobbly, his other hand resting on Harry’s waist, “–could fuck me like you do.”

It seems silly that it makes Liam feel better, but it does. The eyes that have been on Harry tonight suddenly seem inconsequential, like an insect Liam merely needs to swat away.

He lets the moment linger before he crushes their lips together, biting at Harry’s and tasting cherry cocktail. “Stop it.” Liam breathes into his mouth when they part, dragging his lips down to bite at Harry’s chin. Harry laughs, like he’s humouring him.

“Come on,” he insists, kissing Liam briefly before pulling him away from the counter, back toward the main room, “The night is young, unlike you.”

Liam rolls his eyes but takes another swig of his beer, feeling warm and sated. He wants to worry at how easily Harry makes his tension dissipate, his nerves fly away. Harry says a few words and Liam’s shoulders are no longer bunching, the grip he has on his life no longer white-knuckled. It’s worrying, but in the funniest form of irony, everything about Harry calms him down, so he finds he doesn’t dwell too much on it.

Maybe Harry said something whilst he was gone, or maybe he didn’t – but they meet up with the others in the room that’s not full of marijuana smoke and he legitimately has conversations with them. They’re a little stilted, but they’re clearly trying and Liam’s thankful all the same.

“Let’s dance, Liam, come on,” Harry urges him an hour or so later, but Liam’s chuckling, shaking his head.

“It’s okay, babe, you go.” Louis raises his eyebrows from beside him. “I’ve still got my beer to finish.”

Harry pouts, but Niall suggests they dance together and he seems appeased, leaning forward to kiss Liam goodbye, sloppy and open-mouthed, before Niall pulls him away, shaking his head with a laugh.

Liam tries not to smile too wide as he watches them, Harry’s limbs flailing and Niall apologising to everyone he drunkenly hits.

“Harold loves a dance.” Louis states, and Liam turns his head to see he’s looking at the pair of them as well. “You not a dancer?”

“I like dancing,” Liam answers slowly, trying not to frown, “Just maybe not in front of all of these people, so much.”

“Interesting.” Louis mutters quietly, and Liam gets the sense he wasn’t meant to hear it.

“Your, err, internship,” Liam starts after a tense few minutes, trying to salvage a conversation that feels so quiet a pin could drop, even though the music is still pumping out of the speakers. “Where is it?”

Louis laughs, and Liam turns to see Harry twirl Niall, a little more in control of his limbs, it seems.

“It’s at Columbia, actually,” answers Louis, taking a sip from his cup, “Sounded brilliant when I got it, but it’s mostly coffee runs and booking appointments. Not really what I had in mind, to be honest.”

“What, like, Columbia Records?” Liam asks, feeling his tone turn with surprise. He tries not to wince – it sounds incredulous, when he asks like that. But he’s mostly shocked Harry never mentioned this, considering what Liam does for a living.

“Yeah,” Louis says, and he’s raised an eyebrow in Liam’s direction.

“It’s just,” Liam licks his lips, “I mean, I don’t know whether Harry told you. But, you know, if you wanted an internship more substantial– well, like, Payne Records wouldn’t be coffee runs and P.A. errands. Could even have you in the studio with some of our artists, if you wanted.”

He looks at Louis properly, then. His mouth’s slightly parted, the blue of his eyes bright despite the dark room as he stares at Liam. His sharp cheekbones make him an intimidating face to look at head on, and when his expression flashes through so many emotions so quickly Liam can’t fathom them, he realises that Louis has got a lot more depth than Liam might’ve given him credit for, when he only knew him as the friend who smoked up and judged Liam for not doing so.

“I don’t need that,” Louis says abruptly, and Liam jolts out of his thoughts. “I really don’t need your help. Harry doesn’t need it either, you know. He’s fine where he is.”

Liam frowns.

“Alright,” he says, trying not to ruffle feathers, even if it feels like he’s missed something big and important in this conversation. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Louis asks, but it doesn’t feel at all like a question. He dumps his cup into another on a side table, and then simply leaves Liam by the wall, nursing his luke warm beer alone and wondering how their conversation tipped on its head so quickly.

Louis’ words stay with him the rest of the evening – from trying to stop Harry mauling him up against the wall, from talking to Niall as Harry leans sleepily on his shoulders, from plying Harry with water and a little food so he sobers up before they head off. He doesn’t think he’s going to mention it to Harry until he does.

He’s calm, he thinks, as he explains what happened. Curious, as well, he tries to project. Like he’s not entirely sure why Louis reacted so adversely – which is the truth, really, because Liam’s just confused. The whole night was confusing. He’s relieved it’s over, but he’s not entirely sure what to think of the people Harry’s closest to. It feels wrong to say he doesn’t like them, but he doesn’t necessarily want to get to know them better, either.

Harry’s mostly sober by the time Liam’s finished, the water and food having helped him back at the party. So when he starts talking, clear and distinct, Liam almost regrets asking him at all.

“He just didn’t want your help,” Harry says, and he sounds a bit strange. They’re getting ready for bed, the both of them tired. Harry’s shoes are by the door, but he makes no move to undress further. Liam shrugs off his jacket to hang in the closet, trying not to let his nerves get the better of him.

“That’s fair, I guess,” Liam replies, frowning, “But it would be a better opportunity than Columbia, wouldn’t it? If I can get him into the studio, have him meet with some producers.”

Harry’s jaw clenches a bit, and Liam wonders how the man who was falling asleep against him managed to instead look like this in less than an hour.

“Sometimes you do things that no other person would,” Harry tells him, and he sounds like he’s getting frustrated. Liam stares at the way his shoulders seem tense, the way he’s now jerking back the covers of the bed roughly. “Not everyone is going to be thankful, Liam.”

The room is silent save for the rustle of the covers. Then Harry rips off his t-shirt, not bothering to shower off the slight smell of alcohol and instead pushing off his jeans as well, boxer briefs a dark blue in the warm light of their bedroom.

My _bedroom,_ Liam corrects.

“I don’t understand.” Liam tells him, and Harry turns around, jaw hard again and tattoos on display.

“Liam,” Harry starts, tone a tad jerky. Liam feels blindsided, like he can’t quite gauge what he just walked into, “Louis doesn’t want your pity offer. He wants to earn it.”

“He said.” Liam reminds Harry, stepping forward but stopping at the tiniest movement from Harry, almost like a flinch. _What’s happening?_ Liam thinks, panic bleeding into the edges of his thoughts, _This can’t be happening._ “It’s not pity, though. It’s opportunity.”

Harry stares at him, bed covers forgotten. “You don’t get it.”

“I get it perfectly,” Liam replies, frustration seeping into his tone at the way Harry is brushing him off. Like he brushes him off sometimes, when Liam tries to tell him he understands, that he’s been there. “But I’m offering. It’s a unique situation – God knows it’s hard to find an in. I just want to help.”

“That’s all you ever want to do, Liam.” Harry says, and he’s got a hand covering his eyes now, exhaustion leaking into his expression. “All you ever bloody want to do is help. But you know what?” He removes his hand, and then he’s glaring at Liam, determined and intense and Liam’s suddenly reminded of that first day in his office, Harry’s demeanour changing in a heartbeat, it seems. “Not everyone wants it!”

“Why are you getting mad?” Liam asks him, frowning in confusion. Everything feels like it’s going too fast – like Harry fast-forwarded and suddenly they’re fighting when Liam’s still stuck on pause, three scenes behind.

“Because you don’t get it!” Harry exclaims, gesturing wildly. His hair is in disarray from the removal of his t-shirt, his chest flushed red with exasperation. “Your father offered you a record deal at twenty-three and then you got his company at twenty-five! How could you get it?!”

Liam rears back, feeling the words like a knife to the heart, like Harry’s just ripped open his chest without thought or consequence.

“It’s like you feel guilty or, or, or–” His eyes dart around the room, like he’s physically searching for the words. Liam’s blood rushes through his veins, the nape of his neck heating up, sweating and dampening the hair at the roots. “You’re trying to make up for the fact you never experienced all this! You’re pushing your favours at everyone and you think nothing of it!”

“What else,” Liam grits out, angry and hurt, “am I meant to do? Money I’ve earned, but money that’s _not mine_ sits in a bank account.” Liam throws out a hand, shouting suddenly. “It rots and it rots and what else am I meant to do with it, Harry?! Fuck, maybe helping people is the best thing to do with all this money I have when I have _nothing else!_ ”

Harry’s staring at him, wide-eyed, as Liam’s chest heaves with his breaths. The anger subsides, and tiredness takes its place as Liam pushes a hand through his curly hair, free of product for about the first time since he was twenty-five.

“Is that what you want to hear, Haz?” Liam asks, feeling a little ruined. His chest hurts, his ribs expanding painfully with every exhale. “That I’ve got nothing but millions in the bank? It’s not all it’s cracked up to be, really. No family, no friends. Money’s not a substitute.”

“Zayn’s your friend.” Harry consoles weakly, and he steps forward and around the bed, the two of them three or so feet apart.

“Zayn’s my assistant,” explains Liam, closing his eyes briefly and shaking his head. When he opens them, Harry’s closer still, reaching out to put a palm to Liam’s right cheek. “He’s on my payroll.”

“He’s still your friend.” Harry insists, and his face looks too open, too raw – his eyes are glassy, like he’s a second away from crying. “I’m sorry,” His voice cracks right through the middle, and then he really is shedding tears, “God, I’m an awful person. I’m so awful, I’m sorry. I never should have.”

Liam brings a hand up to cover Harry’s, squeezing it as he removes it from his cheek. He leans forward, captures Harry’s bottom lip between his, tasting salt. His eyes flutter back open as he leans his forehead against Harry’s, running a hand over his wayward curls, relishing the moment before he has to leave it.

“Maybe you should sleep at yours tonight,” he says, trying not to let his hurt back into his voice. He’s just so tired, and he knows that if Harry spends the night Liam’ll wake up to his smile and his cooked breakfast and he won’t fully deal with the weight that sits on his chest right now. It’s better for both of them if they’re alone tonight, though Liam doesn’t look forward to the sleepless hours ahead of him.

Harry’s breath hitches at the suggestion, silently hiccoughing through tears.

“Liam,” he murmurs after a minute, and he looks so young in that moment – too young, “You can tie me up. I promise I’ll be good. I–”

“ _No._ ” Liam emphasises, pulling away roughly and turning around, trying to get the image out of his head. It’s tempting – it always is – but it’s not what has to be done, not what they both need. For the first time in this relationship he truly does feel like the older one, like their age difference actually means something that’ll break them. “That’s not– that’s _never_ a solution, alright? That’s not how this works.”

He places both hands on the edge of his dresser, refusing to turn around and instead bending over, trying not to let himself fall apart.

Harry’s quiet as he puts his clothes back on, and Liam barely hears him leave the room before the door to his flat closes with a soft sound, Harry gone from his home and for the night.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his breath stuttering, his voice wet and thick with unshed tears. “Jesus. _Fuck!_ ” He pushes against the dresser, not caring as something falls off with a clatter.

It’s ironic, that as Harry leaves he’s about the only thing that can help him. Liam’s been living with himself for long enough, though, and he has his own coping methods.

He feels stale and empty when he strips down and then gets into his running gear, grabbing Watson’s harness and ignoring his excited whines at the door as Liam jams his phone into his armband, blasting out some Drake and hoping the beat pushes out any other untoward thoughts, like how the fuck Liam’s supposed to fix things with Harry now, when it’s never been clearer that Harry has no clue about what Liam likes, about what everything means. That Harry called them boyfriends when Liam was thinking of something else. That Harry is twenty years old and has no clue about what he wants, relationship or otherwise.

He runs through Hyde Park despite the late hour, Watson panting next to him. He runs and he runs and he runs, Drake turning into Justin Timberlake turning into Maroon 5 as sweat drips down his neck.

The park and its surrounds are quiet, and Liam tells himself the pang of his chest is because he’s been running for over an hour. It’s easier that way, but he finds he can’t quite fool himself this time.

Liam wonders why he bothers at all, when it always comes back to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy guacamoley, 23k for this chapter... woops?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, the final part. I apologise it took longer than usual, I had an injury of the elbow that made me unable to type.

Sunday morning is bleak without Harry there to cook him his spinach omelette. Liam sees the eggs in the fridge and wants to smash them all onto the wooden floor, watch the yolks bleed into the whites and make some kind of analogy about his life at the same time.

“Haven’t seen you in an age.” Zayn remarks when he steps aside to let Liam in thirty minutes later, eyebrows raised. Liam gives a noncommittal grunt, toeing off his joggers before striding past to land heavily on Zayn’s sofa, rubbing his face over and over like it’ll rid him of his burdens.

“Can we get this over with?” Liam asks, pulling his hands away to see Zayn seat himself in the armchair to his right. “You were right. I wasn’t careful. I was thinking with my absolute _tosser_ of a dick, and now I’ve gone and fucked everything up.”

“Liam,” Zayn starts, and he looks tired.

“I’m sorry,” Liam blurts out, realising exactly who he’s with, “Fuck, sorry, Zayn. I know the wedding’s in a month and you’re probably about to collapse with the stress, but like–” He huffs quietly, refusing to finish the sentence how it should be finished – _you’re my only friend._

“That’s not it,” Zayn says, frowning, “I just mean – how’ve you fucked everything up? It’s been barely a day since you left the office faster than I could get out my goodbye, probably off to your lover boy.”

“ _Don’t_ call him that.” Liam grits out, feeling fire burn in his lungs, “That’s not what he is.”

He knows Zayn will likely think he’s hurting – and he is – but Liam’s heart refuses to think of Harry realistically and instead has tucked away a little chamber just for him, with a lock that only Harry can pick. It’s devastating, and yet Liam’s never felt more alive. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much.

There’s silence for a few moments, and then Liam sees Zayn’s face change, get a little softer but also harder to read, like he’s putting on a face for Liam. It makes something in him itch, an annoyance, but he lets it go. He just– he hates the pity side of it all. He’s been through enough of that over the years, and right now he simply needs Zayn to tell him that Harry’s just a stupid boy and he doesn’t matter.

 _Liar,_ a voice whispers.

“What happened?” He asks, and Liam sinks further into the cushions, letting out a shaky breath.

“I dunno,” He gets out, voice rough but quiet as he tries to figure out how things ended up so muddled, “One minute everything was great. I was– I liked him a lot.” Zayn doesn’t do anything but look at Liam intently, and Liam feels his heart race without causation. “I knew we wouldn’t last, but I wanted to enjoy everything whilst I could. He was...” Liam lets his eyes drop to his hands, twisting and turning, “He was wonderful, in so many ways. Then he asked me to meet his friends, which–” Liam laughs, shaking his head; but it’s not funny, “let me tell you, Zayn – I’ve never felt so bloody old. _Jesus._ The looks on their faces when they were talking to me,” He spies Zayn shift in his seat, jaw a little tight, “I was trying to help, yeah? I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted them to like me. _Fuck,_ ” Liam feels his heart sink a bit, ages old feelings resurfacing as he thinks of all the times he’s just wanted people to like him. It’s a defining character flaw, isn’t it? Pathetic. “Felt like I was back in secondary. So I ask one of them – Louis, his name is – whether he wants to come to the studio, meet a few people. He’s at Columbia right now, but hating it.”

He has to take a breath, run a hand through his hair and wonder how his life turned out this way, worried over the opinions of twenty-year-olds, of all things.

“Well, he didn’t much like the offer. That was fine.” Liam shrugs, leaning back into the sofa and picking at a stray thread on a pillow. “Then I told Harry, and he– he went off on me. Said I shouldn’t be doing that, that his friends don’t want my help.” Zayn frowns, and Liam pushes through before he can regret telling him any of it at all, “I said some things, maybe, that weren’t so great. Said I had no one to help, so why not his friends?”

“Liam,” Zayn starts, and he sounds tired. God, Liam just inspires that, doesn’t he?

“I know,” Liam mutters, pulling harder at the thread and watching it unravel with a strange stinging in his ribs, “Harry apologised, but he... he doesn’t understand.” Liam looks up, catalogues the way Zayn’s brows furrow, the way his eyes are so intently focused on Liam like he’s trying to crack him open, a real-life Humpty Dumpty.

It’s difficult to explain, though. Zayn knows about his preferences – knows because of the mess with Sophia, of course – but Liam never likes to mention it much, preferring allusions and a general sense of privacy about the whole thing. Zayn respects him; probably doesn’t understand it so much, but he respects Liam. He sort of has to, considering Liam’s paying his salary.

“I thought he understood, Zayn,” Liam says, ignoring the break in his voice and clearing his throat, swallowing back tears, “I really did. I did everything I could to make him understand. Then he... then he wants me to use him, y’know? He apologises, and _that’s_ part of it? _I can’t,_ ” Liam rubs over his face, cheeks feeling cool and damp in the aftermath. “I can’t go through that again, where it’s just for me. That’s not how I want it to be.”

“Alright,” Zayn says, voice even and calm. Liam sniffs, wiping his face again as more tears fall. “You told him that, right? You told him that was out of line?”

“Yeah, of course,” Liam mumbles into a hand, blinking to get rid of the wetness sticking his eyelashes together, “Said he had to go, didn’t I? Said it doesn’t work like that. Fat lot of good any of it is, though. He thinks that’s how it works and _now,_ ” A sharp inhale, holding back from letting his face crumble as if he’s a child crying out for its mother, “now there’s no way to fix that. I let him think that’s how I did things for so long. He thinks he’s got to, like, do things for me. I don’t...” He can’t continue, shaking his head as more tears fall.

“You’ve got to stop this,” Zayn announces suddenly, and Liam looks up to frown at him, confused. Zayn’s jaw is awfully hard, sharp like the ridge of a diamond. “It’s not just Harry that’s learning, Liam. You are, too.”

“I know better,” Liam says, and then frowns deeper, “I _should_ know better.”

“Sophia fucked you up,” Zayn says bluntly, and Liam flinches back, turning his face away, “No, look at me,” He complies, twisting his mouth in indecision, “You _talk_ about this. You don’t send Harry away, alright? If he doesn’t understand, you take him aside and you tell him what it’s like, how you do things. Just because there’s been one mistake doesn’t mean it’s all done for.” Zayn sighs, the bite in his jaw loosening a bit. “And Harry getting angry at you for offering to help his friend is probably because he thinks _you’ve_ misunderstood _him._ ”

“I have.” Liam agrees, letting his shoulders drop miserably. He really wishes he was wrong, but Liam’s definitely gone and let Harry misunderstand him if he thinks Liam wants any of that as some kind of apology.

“Liam,” Zayn urges, shifting to his knees to take Liam’s haggard face in his thin hands. He forces Liam to look at him. “ _Listen to me._ You’ve been saying since Sophia that you want someone to be honest with you – that you want them to like you for who you are, not what you can give them.”

“Zayn,” Liam starts, frowning, throat feeling clogged, “what–”

“ _And,_ ” stresses Zayn, lightly shaking Liam’s cheeks, “you’ve just gone and tried to _give_ things to Harry and his friends. Things they never asked for, because they’re conscious that they might be takin’ advantage.” Zayn widens his dark brown eyes, the freckle in one of them catching Liam’s attention for some reason. He _knows_ Zayn. He really does. Maybe... maybe it’s not just a payroll thing. Maybe. “Do you see what I’m sayin’? Do you see how Harry might’ve taken it?”

“I was just trying to help.” Liam says miserably, feeling his eyes well again. You’d never think he was in his thirties, the way he’s been acting. “Fuck, I’m such a bell-end.”

“You’re not a fucking bell-end,” Zayn rolls his eyes, hands sliding off Liam’s face to wipe a stray tear from his cheek, “It’s just that sometimes you forget how real life works.”

Liam thinks he ought to be offended, but he’s honestly just exhausted.

“Giving the label to you was the worst thing Geoff could’ve done,” Zayn admits quietly, matter-of-factly. “That was too much pressure for you. You didn’t have a chance to live your own life.”

“Zayn,” Liam warns him, feeling his eyes tear up again, “Enough.”

And because Zayn knows him – because they’re _friends_ – he lets it go.

“Tell me about the wedding,” Liam asks desperately, wiping over his face with the inside of his elbow and giving his best smile. Zayn tries not to answer it with his own, Liam can tell, but he starts to soon enough – likely once he’s realised Liam has it a bit more together than he did when he barged into his flat. “How’re the Maliks? Your sisters going bonkers?”

“Please,” groans Zayn, and he looked a little hunted, “They want _everything_ to match.”

He laughs with Zayn, even if the heavy weight of his fight with Harry still weighs down the corners of his mouth a little more than he’d like. But it’s easy, talking with Zayn – it always has been, but especially since Liam was last newly single. He’s found himself relying on Zayn more than he should for an assistant; but then he corrects himself – friend. Zayn’s a friend, he thinks, remembering the way Harry had told him that. Insistent. Stubborn.

Everything feels so raw, then. Remembering the way Harry had cried in front of him, the way he’d wanted to give Liam something he’d thought would fix it all – and Liam had turned him away, the first time he’d ever done that. He wants to text Harry and act like nothing’s happened, but he knows he’s got a lot to say. A lot to ask for, as well.

He spends the rest of the weekend ruminating over it, wondering if Harry wants to bother at all. Maybe this was the out he needed, after realising his friends don’t like Liam, after probably finally realising why Liam is still single at thirty-two; with that insurmountable pile of emotional baggage trailing behind him like it constantly does.

Liam probably pushed him too hard and too suddenly, rushed through the most important stages of any kind of relationship, leaving Harry confused and just swept up in the current of it all. He’s pressured him into something he likely never fully realised or properly grasped. Liam did him a disservice, and it’s up to Liam to fix it.

He finds himself in Peckham on the Monday night, a little later than he’d like considering he knows Harry has volunteering early on Tuesdays. But he found himself unable to construct a simple text, incapable of pressing the call button on Harry’s contact. It feels both harder and easier to do it in person and so he’s sweating nervous bullets in his t-shirt and jeans outside of Harry’s door, even if it’s still the early days of Spring.

Harry opens it after Liam gives the doorbell a ring, slightly bleary-eyed. Liam wonders where Louis is, and swallows thickly.

“Hey,” He greets tentatively, scratching the nape of his neck like he’s feeling anything but incredibly worried, trying not to think how Harry’ll take everything once he lays it out, true and honest and intimidating. “Can I come in?”

Harry’s eyes rove over Liam – over his white t-shirt, his dark blue jeans; then his scratchy stubble, his tired eyes, his unkempt hair. It’s probably the loosest Harry’s ever seen him, and he seems undeniably intrigued.

There’s enough space once Harry stands aside for Liam to slip by him, his arm brushing Harry’s stomach through his faded black t-shirt and making him shiver. The design on the front is so worn that Liam can’t make it out. He’s just wearing some ratty boxer briefs, and Liam forbids himself from imagining Harry curled up in bed, asleep and alone.

Harry’s playing with his bottom lip idly when Liam turns back around to take a seat at the rickety dining table, a bouquet of wilting flowers sitting right in the middle. Liam feels a strange kind of kinship with them.

“Please, can you sit down?” Liam asks him after the room goes stale, neither of them beginning the conversation. “You look uncomfortable.”

Harry pinches his own lip slightly as he shuffles over, his bony feet bumping into Liam’s shoes before he takes the seat next to him, angled toward Liam but keeping a safe distance.

“I wanted to apologise in person, Harry,” Liam finally admits, letting Harry’s curious eyes pierce into him, “I was out of line, throwing you out like that. I... I’m an adult. Very much an adult,” Liam huffs, trying to lighten the mood. Harry’s expression doesn’t change, and Liam picks at his jeans absently to distract himself, “I should’ve spoken to you about it properly. That’s on me.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, just stares at him. Liam fidgets in his chair, feeling something bubble up inside him before it decides to burst out of his throat.

“But I’m not sorry for trying to help,” Liam says defiantly, frowning hard, “And I do understand what it’s like. My dad always made the point not to give me special treatment. I told you about that record deal someone offered me from a smaller label. But what I never said was that it was a shitty deal.” He shifts closer, grabs Harry’s lax hand on the table and pulls him closer as well, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the inside of Harry’s wrist, watching the ink disappear under his hold only to appear again, over and over. “It was so shit, Harry. I wasn’t even going to get an album, just an EP on limited release. So I get it, I really do. And if I can help the person I care about,” He looks up at Harry then, waits until they lock eyes and he can see Harry thinking furiously behind green, “If I can do that, then I will. It’s not about trying to live through you, alright? That’s not it. I had my time, and I’m...” Liam isn’t going to lie, not again, “I accept where I am now. But your friends don’t have to.”

“I just thought,” Harry blurts out suddenly, turning his hand over to grip at Liam’s tightly, his feet knocking into Liam’s again, settling between Liam’s own. He scrunches his face up, leans back to shake his head. His curls sway with the movement. “I dunno, it’s stupid.”

“Babe,” Liam murmurs, squeezing Harry’s hand.

“I just thought you wanted me ‘cause I made you feel good.” He admits in a rush, breathing out long and low once he’s done. He’s not looking at Liam. “I was alright with it, to be honest. It’s happened before. I... I like making people feel good.”

Liam knows. He thinks of Harry beneath him, squirming. Liam _really_ knows.

“S’different, though.” Harry looks down at the table, and Liam notices how greasy his hair is, how wan his face looks. Like he hasn’t slept much, or even bothered to tend to his hair; which he’s usually so proud of, it seems. “With my friends, it’s different. I don’t–” He pauses, searching for the words with a stern look on his face. “It’s just different, with them. It’s okay when it’s me, but with them... I dunno.”

There’s an odd feeling spreading from Liam’s gut, through his torso, right out to the tips of his fingers. It’s floaty – wild and unrestrained, but also a little lazy, content. Liam imagines it’s like a cat, purring soft but loud as it figure-eights between your legs. Tender, but with the potential for sharpness – a reminder of its undomesticated roots.

“I thought you liked the way I made you feel,” Harry admits in a whisper, and Liam inches closer because it seems so wrong, somehow, for Harry’s legs not to be impossibly entwined with his own. “I thought, maybe, you were realising I’m not like that all the time. I panicked.”

“Like what?” Liam whispers back, unable to look away.

Harry’s gaze slides up to him, his expression open and unsure. He looks so small, even if they’re about the same size. Liam feels entirely responsible for him in that second.

“Submissive,” answers Harry, the right corner of his mouth lifting into a sardonic smile, “Small, or weak-willed; or, like, willing to do anything, really.”

“Harry,” Liam starts, regretting everything he ever said or did to make Harry feel that way. “I’m so sorry.”

“S’alright,” Harry says, and Liam interrupts him before he can go on.

“No, you don’t even realise,” He chuckles dryly, amazed, “Harry, it’s not like that at all.”

Harry just looks confused. “What?”

Liam pulls at his hand more firmly, watching as Harry realises he’s meant to be moving, standing up only to fall into Liam, whose face is at his belly-button.

“I only have control,” Liam explains, letting go of Harry’s hand and placing both of his on Harry’s hips, squeezing lightly, “because you let me have it.”

The younger man looks down at him, hair falling over his face a bit. His eyes dart between Liam’s, his lips slightly parted.

“It’s the illusion of control, Harry,” continues Liam, leaning into Harry to give his clothed stomach a lingering kiss before looking up again, ignoring the twinge in his neck. “You lay yourself out for me because I ask you to. You could say no in a heartbeat. You _would,_ if you didn’t want me exactly where I was.” Liam lets his hands slide around to sneak under Harry’s old t-shirt and caress his back, watching the way his hips involuntarily move closer. “The way you look and the way you feel when we’re like that,” Liam tries not to pull Harry into him harshly, remembering all the times they’ve gotten lost together, “It drives me mad. It’s _you_ that has the control over me.”

Harry’s eyes are a little wide as his hands come up to brush through Liam’s dishevelled curls, tilting Liam’s head back so they’re staring at each other intently.

“I only like the way you make me feel because you’re _letting_ me feel it.” He kneads at Harry’s lower back, hearing a quiet sound come from his boyfriend. “You let me tease you. You let me take you hard, take you slow. You let me _hear_ you begging. You let me tie you up. You _let_ me take you apart piece by piece,” He slides his hands out from under Harry’s t-shirt and leans back in his chair, giving both of them a moment of relief. “Do you understand?”

Harry swallows, and Liam follows the bob of his Adam’s apple as he leans down, one hand gripping the back of Liam’s chair and the other cradling his cheek, bringing their lips together leisurely, exhaling shakily against Liam’s once they separate.

He leans in heavily a minute later, his hair tickling Liam’s cheeks as he swings his leg out from between Liam’s to sit on his thighs, shifting until they’re comfortable, kissing all the while. Liam lets his hands settle on Harry’s waist, enjoying the relaxed way they’re kissing. There’s no hurry, there’s no urgency, and it makes that sharp but tender feeling rush over him again like a wave.

“We never have to do this again,” Liam tells Harry when it gets to the point that they’re just breathing hotly onto each other’s lips, “You’re not _weak-willed._ You’re anything but.”

“I’m trying to, like,” Harry licks his lips and gives a short laugh as Liam lifts a hand to bury in the hair at the nape of his neck, an anchor of sorts, “say something coherent, but,” He licks his lips again, eyes fluttering closed, “I just want you inside me, really.”

Liam feels his face break into a smile, eyes crinkling.

“But it’s late,” Harry continues, and he kisses Liam again for what must be a solid minute, finishing his thought once they part as if there’s been no interruption at all, “And I’m tired, so...” His right hand drops from the back of Liam’s chair down to their laps to massage Liam through his jeans like they’ve got all the time in the world. Liam lets his right hand move to cover Harry’s cock, feeling it harden in his grip and only tugging at Harry’s waistband when he starts unbuttoning Liam’s jeans.

Harry’s cock is hot and smooth when it touches Liam’s, and Harry takes both of them in his broad hand to wank them off together, biting his bottom lip and making it so red it looks like he’s been sucking Liam off instead. Liam’s reaction to that thought is visceral, the hand buried in Harry’s hair yanking sharply. Harry cries out softly in response, his hips jerking into his own grip.

His chest is tight as he pulls again, Harry’s head tilting to the side and exposing his neck, Liam angling his head so he can suck on it, bite a little and hope Harry bruises easily, a memento of their time together.

Liam pulls on Harry’s hair one more time once he seems close, and the way his jaw drops open, his hips jerking as he comes all over his own hand and Liam’s cock, makes Liam rush to his own orgasm, groaning as he sinks his teeth into Harry’s neck, his abs twitching.

Harry’s thighs are trembling as he continues to squeeze himself, and Liam grabs his wrist to stop him, the two of them looking at each other as Harry pulls his hand toward his face, Liam’s grip almost faltering as Harry pokes a tongue out to lick at his own come.

“ _Harry._ ” Liam chokes out, and he thinks – sod it all, really. Harry wouldn’t lie to him. So he brings their mouths together and licks into Harry’s, their tongues brushing against each other as Liam tastes Harry for the first time, not too salty and so much better than he had ever thought – though he might still be feeling the afterglow of orgasm.

They’re sticky and weak-limbed when they stand, so Harry leads them into his bedroom. Liam looks around at the band posters, the lava lamp on Harry’s bedside, the guitar in the corner and the wide bookshelf filled to the brim with novels and textbooks, before he strips, wiping himself off with his clothes. Harry’s already spread out naked under the covers by the time Liam joins him. He pushes into Liam’s space almost immediately, urging Liam’s right hand into his hair and threading their legs together like its commonplace; like if Liam wants to go, he’s going to have to leave a part of himself behind in Harry’s bed to do it.

“I can make my own decisions,” Harry says, his tone brooking no argument; it’s in contrast to the softness of his flushed face and his glassy, post-orgasm eyes. He pushes in even closer to press their mouths together briefly, the hand at Liam’s nape scratching hypnotically, “I’m not _using_ you, and you’re not using me. This is _mutual,_ it’s always _been_ mutual. In every way.”

“Okay,” Liam placates him, tenderly bringing up his free hand to grasp Harry’s, tugging it from his neck so he can kiss his knuckles, slowly and tenderly. “Alright, babe. I know now.”

Harry’s face contorts, like he’s trying to hold back from doing something. He ends up looking down, gaze a little distant as Liam counts his dark eyelashes.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, and then looks back up with clear eyes, a hint of something gentle to his jaw that’s never been there before.

“I missed you, too.” Liam whispers, and Harry smiles, small but genuine. His gaze suddenly turns heavy-lidded, like he’s exhausted and just needed to hear those words before drifting off.

Neither of them speak as Harry twists, pulling Liam’s arm around him and sighing into his pillow, curls everywhere.

When Liam wakes up the next morning, he so wishes he didn’t have to go to work. It seems to be dark outside, given Harry’s curtains are slightly parted and yet no light is threatening his slumber. Liam turns his head over his shoulder to see the clock and reads _4:46_ with a sense of relief. At least he’s not late, even if he’s only gotten about five hours of sleep. He settles back in for another twenty or so minutes, before he accepts he has to move, opening his eyes to Harry’s pale shoulder and his off-white wall.

Extracting himself without waking his bed partner takes an excruciating amount of time, and then he’s stealing an old t-shirt of Harry’s from his wardrobe and shucking on his jeans commando. He balls up his dirty briefs and t-shirt, taking in Harry’s naked shoulders with envy, before shutting the door quietly. He finds a tote under the sink in the gaudy kitchen and stashes his clothes in it before he hears the click of the front door opening, a relieved sigh echoing throughout the flat as it closes without a sound a moment later.

He’s a little frozen – whoever just got home is going to see him when they walk past the entryway into the kitchen, and he’s just trying to work out whether or not to meet them in the main area first before Niall simply walks in, mouth looking red and swollen.

Niall jumps when he glimpses Liam hovering by the sink. “Christ almighty!” he hisses, hand to his chest. “What’re you on about, scaring me like that?”

“Sorry,” Liam whispers, conscious of the other two men sleeping – though he’s not entirely sure where Louis is, because he felt like he and Harry were alone earlier at the dining table.

_Shit, I hope so._

“Jesus,” Niall whispers, shaking his head. He trudges over to the fridge, opening up the freezer and scanning it before his eyes light up. He takes out an opened packet of peas, tied closed with a rubber band, to bring to his face.

“What happened to you?” Liam asks, concerned.

“Fight at work. Some knobheads started it up over some winnings and I had to intervene.” He rolls his eyes, turning around to lean back against the fridge. He closes his eyes, peas on his face. He looks tired. “Got meself a right hook for it, thanks for that.” He opens one eye, peeking at Liam. “What’re you doing here?”

Liam scratches at his jaw, a nervous tick, then gives an aborted sort of shrug. It looks like he’s lost control of his body, probably, and he tries not to flush in embarrassment. He’s _thirty-two,_ for Christ’s sake.

“I was just leaving,” Liam explains instead, “Got work and all that.”

“Right, yeah,” Niall says, nodding a bit. He winces as he takes away the frozen peas before putting them back to his mouth. His voice is a little muffled as he continues. “You made up with Haz, yet? He’s been moping like a right idiot.”

Liam coughs as he tries to hide the fact that he’s choking on his own spit, only quietening down at Niall’s dark look.

“Sorry, sorry.” He clears his throat quietly, “Uhm, yeah. We’re– fine.” He sounds jerky to his own ears and tries not to wince. Not exactly the best impression – and that’s probably three times now, with Niall.

“Brilliant,” says Niall, though he doesn’t sound at all like the proclamation would dictate, “Having to hear him and Louis scream at each other was a bit much.”

“Scream at each other?” Liam echoes, feeling awkward and out of place in Harry’s kitchen with his tote bag filled with come-stained clothes at his side whilst Niall talks about two twenty year olds having a row.

“Look,” Niall starts, and all traces of relaxation are gone from his face as he throws the peas past Liam into the sink with a _thunk,_ “I’m only tellin’ ya this because Harry is his own worst enemy, isn’t he? Terrible at communicatin’, and I’m sick of seeing him sabotage his own relationships ‘cause he won’t fucking talk. So, here’s the thing: Haz likes you a lot, and he was worried you were goin’ to let him go. He and Louis were yelling at each other because Louis doesn’t like ya much.” Niall shrugs, and it seems the late hour is strengthening his accent as he continues, “I don’t have a problem with you, Liam. Don’t even know ya, do I? But if you hurt Haz like that again, make him think he’s not got value? Then we _will_ have a problem. Simple as that.”

“Right.” Liam replies weakly, not really knowing what to say.

“Harry was cryin’ the rest of the weekend, mate,” Niall tells him, eyebrows raised as he looks at Liam critically, “So it better be fixed.”

“It is,” Liam rushes to console the blond, nodding his head, “Harry knows I care a lot about him. It was just a misunderstanding, believe me.”

“Alright,” Niall says, and just like that he seems to accept it, smiling at Liam, “Would love to keep chatting but I’m knackered.”

“Right, yeah,” Liam hurries to acknowledge, nodding. He feels like he’s a bobblehead, “Of course.”

He gives Liam a nod before he leaves the kitchen, and Liam glances his watch before swearing internally, hurrying out the door and sending Harry a text as he hops into his car, racing back to Kensington. He’s got to drop it off in the garage before he gets to work.

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” Zayn observes when he exits the lift, and then his eyebrows fly up when he sees what Liam’s wearing, “This is different, yeah?”

“Shut it,” Liam grumbles, feeling grumpy and impatient, “I’ve got to change into my spare suit, hold on.”

He feels like he’s putting on another skin when he gets into the navy suit he puts aside for emergencies. They used to always be things like spilling something down his other suit, or sleeping in the office overnight – definitely nothing like coming from Peckham to Kensington at arse o’clock because he slept over at someone’s place. Liam doesn’t think he’s ever done that in his life.

Maybe it’s a sign – of where he’s at now, of the kind of person he’s letting himself become; the kind of person Harry’s exposing; peeling back the hard shell carefully instead of breaking it to pieces like Sophia. Maybe he _is_ Humpty Dumpty, after all.

Zayn’s briefing him on the meetings he’s to go to about an hour later, breakfast and sugary tea filling Liam up nicely. That’s when he gets the text – although it’s less _text,_ and more _picture._

“Liam,” Zayn says, and Liam snaps his eyes back to his assistant, pocketing his phone in a hurry. The photo is burned into the backs of his eyelids, though – Harry’s gently parted lips, his elongated neck, the brush of his curls on his naked shoulder; Liam’s bite mark red and angry.

 _Holy hell,_ is Liam’s most pressing and painful thought.

“Are you paying attention?” Zayn drawls, and Liam fights back red cheeks.

“I’m fine,” Liam says, clearing his throat to get rid of the rasp, “Go on. Something about analytics?”

And it’s as he stands there and listens to Zayn intently – frowning when he mentions something out of place but making a note to bring it up to his CFO later – that he realises this is all so bland to him. It’s not a new realisation, but it feels paramount all of a sudden. Whereas before he used to be able to wave it off, accept it was part of the deal of Payne Records, and know he was lucky to be in charge of such a successful business entity... now, he wonders why he’s not sat in with Freya as she records her album, when he was the one who pushed for her so badly. He wonders why he’s not behind a sound desk, chatting to the engineer and putting in his own two cents. He wonders why he’s not got a piano in front of him, tinkering with a tune and falling into a melody.

He retreats to his office, the day of meetings ahead of him feeling trite and almost unbearable.

“I need to see you,” Liam breathes into the phone as soon as Harry picks up. He can hear the sounds of the hospital in the background, and he closes his eyes. Harry’s got his hair in a bun again, when Liam imagines it. He’s wearing those stupid scrubs, but this time he’s got on bright pink crocs. He’s smiling as he leans against a wall somewhere, mobile against his ear. Liam feels his heart stutter.

“You liked the photo?” Harry asks, and Liam can hear the hesitance in his teasing, like he’s testing the waters.

“No,” Liam replies sarcastically, huffing out a laugh, “I hated it. Terrible. Delete it immediately.”

Harry laughs, and Liam rests his forehead against the cool glass, opening his eyes to look out over London and try to make out the hospital, even if it’s over on the other side of the river. He feels like he could float over there, the floor to ceiling windows granting him that fantasy.

“I can come by tonight,” Harry tells him, and he sounds muted, a little subdued, “if that’s alright.”

“Yes,” Liam agrees immediately, “Or I can come to you, I don’t mind. I just need to see you.”

The other end is quiet, and then Harry breathes in deeply.

“I’ll come to you,” Harry says, and he sounds firmer now, more confident, “I’ve got the day off tomorrow, so it’s fine.”

Liam frowns. “You’ve got uni, don’t you?”

“Cancelled, actually.” Harry tells him casually, and Liam frowns a little at his tone but decides it’s not worth the follow up. He’ll bug Harry in person, if he’s still like this tonight. He doesn’t want to ruin the excitement, though, of having Harry back, of knowing he understands fully.

“Alright,” Liam says slowly, face clearing. He hesitates, something on the tip of his tongue that he can’t name. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” Harry replies softly after a few seconds of silence, and Liam closes his eyes, feels his heart unfurl from its scared little ball.

He finds himself staring at the photo every spare minute in between meetings, like it’s going to start moving the more he looks at it. Zayn rolls his eyes with a smile when Liam leaves early, which is probably an indicator of the fact he’s patched things up with Harry. Liam would normally lament over how obvious he’s been recently, but he finds he doesn’t much care when Harry’s waiting for him at his dinner table, typing furiously into his new laptop.

Liam slides a hand to the nape of Harry’s neck, gently squeezing as Harry leans back, gripping Liam’s hip in greeting.

“Good evening,” Liam murmurs, and Harry smiles, small and private.

“Hey,” he murmurs back, digging his thumb into Liam’s hip, just above his belt, “There’s some pasta in the kitchen – I was waiting for you.”

Harry joins him as Liam’s heating up his dinner in the microwave, leaning his hip against the counter and tapping ringed fingers against its edge. He smiles at Liam when they catch each other’s eyes, but he seems fidgety and unsettled.

Liam passes over the steaming pasta before putting another plate in, watching it circle ‘round and ‘round, like the timer is counting down to Harry’s expected admission and not Liam’s meal.

But nothing happens, and Liam eats his pasta against the counter, smiling at Harry close-mouthed when he smiles at Liam, then putting his plate and cutlery in the dishwasher barely ten minutes later. It’s easy to eat quickly when Harry’s cooking, some chili bacon sauce that made Liam’s mouth water.

Liam lets his hand glide over Harry’s hip as he passes, rucking up his vintage t-shirt and leaving behind white marks with his blunt nails before walking back through to the main area, lowering himself onto the sofa and kicking up his feet with a sigh. It’s a Tuesday, but Liam feels like it ought to be a Friday at this rate.

Harry follows easily, but he nudges Liam’s knees apart with his own as he crawls onto the sofa, settling between his thighs with his back to Liam’s front. His head rests on Liam’s right collarbone, and Liam lets it happen for a few minutes, getting whiffs of Harry’s kiwi shampoo with every inhale. He’s got Harry’s hand in his left, and he’s tangling and untangling their fingers on a loop, looking at the calluses of Harry’s – so much writing, and a little bit of guitar – and the relative softness of his own, with only typing to their name. It’s like the dichotomy of their hands represents everything they are; together and not together, hard and soft.

Harry squirms against Liam, and his hand goes lax in Liam’s grip. He can’t seem to sit still, shifting and tensing and then relaxing at random intervals.

“Haz?” Liam prods, frowning. Harry pushes further back into Liam.

“Sorry.” Harry apologises quietly, and he stills. But it’s barely a minute later when he seems to be jerking a bit, like he’s holding his breath.

“Harry?” Liam asks, and he can hear the worry in his own tone.

“M’sorry,” Harry apologises again, and his voice sounds wet, his voice thick. Liam’s heart drops. “Sorry, sorry. S’just, I mucked up at the hospital today. Can’t stop thinkin’ about it.”

“Harry,” Liam shifts them gently so as not to frighten the conversation out of them, pulling back so he can get a better look at Harry’s face. He’s not crying, but he looks on the verge of – eyes glassy, cheeks and lips red, a few sniffles sounding out. “Is everyone okay?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Harry replies, rubbing a hand over his face, “But I got the ultrasounds mixed up. I gave Mrs Turner’s to Miss Vyas, which wouldn’t be a huge deal normally,” He bites his lip, “but they wanted to know the sex, yeah? It’s this thing the hospital does,” Harry finally looks at Liam, and his brows are furrowed, his lips downturned. “We put it in a little envelope with a slip of paper saying boy or girl. Mrs Turner was having a boy, and Miss Vyas was having a girl,” His face crumples, and he brings his hands up to cover it, his voice distant through his palms, “and the looks on their faces, Liam. They laughed about it but I could tell. I mucked up that moment for them. They were so excited.”

“Love,” Liam begins, bringing their joined hands up to kiss the back of Harry’s hand, catching his eyes, “Everyone makes mistakes.”

Harry’s mouth twists as he looks away, staring at the blank television screen. “It’s just so much. I kept thinking about it all day. What if I’d not gone to the bathroom beforehand? Maybe if I’d paid more attention as I was walking to each room, I would’ve noticed. Then that kept affecting my other work. I’ve probably messed everyone about with the scheduling. I just–”

“Babe,” Liam interrupts, firm enough for Harry’s mouth to suddenly shut, his big eyes snapping to Liam’s, “Do you trust me?”

Harry’s eyes dart between Liam’s, and his head shifts in the tiniest of nods. Liam pulls him up off the couch with him, stopping only to cradle Harry’s face in his hands and breathe against his mouth, lips brushing minutely in an almost ticklish caress. Harry’s mouth drops open, waiting, and Liam leans in slowly to lick into him, the slide of their tongues relaxed and sensual. Goosebumps spring up on Liam’s forearms, and Harry’s hands lift up to cradle them, rubbing over the skin lightly.

Liam pulls back, letting his nose nudge Harry’s playfully before he tugs on his wrists, turning and letting Harry follow him, hands entwined.

“Babe,” murmurs Liam when they enter the bedroom, switching their positions so Harry can lower himself unhurriedly onto the bed, green eyes boring up into Liam’s brown. “Lie back, darling.” Harry’s breath hitches, and he scoots back leisurely, biting his bottom lip red.

Liam undoes his belt and lets it drop to the floor before he leans over, rummaging around under the bed on the left side before he manages to open the box, pulling the material and the candles out from it. He drops the blindfold onto Harry’s chest, which shifts with sharp breaths, and places the used candle on the bedside table, a box of matches following. Harry’s eyes flick to Liam’s before a pale hand reaches out, the bones of his wrist looking delicate with the promise of what might come.

Fingertips brush over the high walls of wax, then over the matchbox; and lastly a nail snags on the striking strip of the small box. Liam lets his eyes travel up Harry’s arm, over the sinews of muscle to his clothed shoulder, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide the lines of ink on his skin. Their eyes meet, and then Liam places his right hand on Harry’s chest, over the blindfold, and slides it up to Harry’s throat.

“Do you want to be good?” Liam murmurs, and Harry’s hips thrust up into the air in response, his eyes a little blown. He brings his other hand up to cover Liam’s, taking the blindfold out from underneath his grip and grinding his hips down into the mattress, his eyes fluttering in want.

“Yeah,” breathes Harry, and he brings both hands to the material, stretching the silk over his head and tying it behind his curls. His cheeks are already a little flushed, his sharp jaw jutting out from his neck as he squirms beneath Liam.

Liam strikes a match, watches the way Harry’s hips fidget once more before bringing flame to quick, seeing the wax accumulate as Harry lies on the bed, legs splayed and eyes covered. His chest moves with every inhale, and his stomach is bared to the room from Liam’s earlier touch. A part of him wants to leave him there, waiting in silence, but Liam knows this isn’t so much for him right now, even if he might enjoy it.

“Are you going to be good, sweetheart?” Liam asks quietly, letting his hands move the fabric of Harry’s joggers up his legs, feeling his thighs twitch. Liam can see the furrow in Harry’s brow, the shift of his hips against the mattress and the tenting of his pants giving away his arousal.

“ _Liam,_ ” Harry whispers, and he sounds wrecked already.

“Answer the question.” Liam demands, voice a little harder. He removes his hands from Harry, ignoring the cut-off sound his partner makes as he reaches over for the candle, feeling the heat through its thinnest sides.

“Yes,” Harry blurts, and he shudders when Liam brings his spare hand to Harry’s chest, palm pressing lightly to his side. “ _Oh, fuck._ ”

Liam lets the moment hang for a few seconds, watching Harry writhe under him, chest expanding with every breath as Liam holds the candle over his ribcage, unmoving.

Just when Harry looks like he’s about to say something, Liam pinches his side lightly, letting the first few drops of hot wax fall at the same time. Harry’s back arches and he cries out, panting, his dick jerking through his joggers. He gives a groan, licking at his swollen lips. He’s gripping the headboard with white knuckles. His hips thrust up again as Liam scrapes off the cool wax with a blunt nail, his right thumb rubbing into the red, pinched skin of Harry’s side.

“You’re doing so well, Harry.” Liam tells him gently, and Harry breathes out shakily.

He waits a few seconds before tilting the candle again, watching the light pink wax drip onto the inked butterfly below Harry’s sternum, eyes enraptured with the scene before him. Harry’s joggers are slung so low, his fidgeting displacing them, that the thatch of hair at the base of his cock is visible. Liam slides his right hand down to tug at them, and Harry’s dick bobs free, dark pink and angry, leaking steadily from the tip.

“Lower,” Harry gasps, shoulders shifting. Liam looks up to see his bunched shirt, his neck elongated; and he’s suddenly vividly reminded of the picture Harry sent to Liam’s phone, the remnants of his biting only a bruise on Harry’s skin. His skin looks so beautiful like that, remembering Liam’s touch. “Liam, _please._ ”

“Taking it so well, babe,” Liam tells him as he lets more wax drip onto his stomach this time, skin sensitive and pale. Harry jerks, and Liam feels bad enough already, seeing the way Harry’s dick just wants so desperately to come. This is almost too much – in the best way. “You’re so good.”

Harry whimpers, and then Liam finally realises how hard he is, his cock pushing into his own jeans painfully. He almost drops the candle back onto the bedside in his haste, and then he’s moving down to take Harry into his mouth, pressing his tattooed hips back into the mattress as he cries out, sensitive and begging to orgasm.

He pulls off barely a minute later, just in time to see Harry spurt all over himself, hitched breaths making it sound more painful than pleasurable. Liam pushes up to capture Harry’s lips between his own, burying his hand in Harry’s curls and dislodging his blindfold in the process.

“Was I good?” Harry whispers against Liam’s lips, and Liam opens his eyes, sees the damp tear tracks that start at the corner of Harry’s. His eyes are glazed over almost, and his chest is flushed red.

“Of course,” Liam whispers back.

“Come in me,” Harry pleads, and his wide hands pull Liam into him roughly, his cock brushing Harry’s softening one, “Please, Liam, come in me, please–”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Liam bites out, and he comes, making the both of them wet and sticky as he shoves his face into Harry’s neck, overwhelmed. The two of them breathe heavily for a minute, and then Liam pulls back, thumb rubbing over Harry’s red lips. Harry’s tongue peeks out, licking at the pad of Liam’s finger and making him shudder. There’s something stuck in his chest – like he needs to cough but can’t quite summon up the discomfort. Instead, he leans in slowly, breathing into Harry’s mouth before licking into it, sucking on Harry’s tongue and swallowing whatever’s unmoving within himself.

They shower lazily after, Harry wincing only slightly as Liam pulls the wax and come out of his body hair, kissing up and down Harry’s neck tenderly in silent apology.

“Thank you.” Harry says when Liam returns to bed after feeding Watson a bit later.

Liam kisses him, resting his hand on the ridge of Harry’s jaw and looking into his eyes, at ease and feeling a squeeze of his heart almost as if he misses Harry, even though he’s right there in front of him.

“There’s a wedding,” Liam mumbles against Harry’s lips after however much time has passed, the two of them lying with their legs tangled, mouths a hair’s breadth apart, “Would you come with me?”

Harry’s green eyes are out of focus this close, but Liam thinks he sees something soft flicker through them – something Liam hasn’t exactly been privy to before.

“Of course.” Harry answers, and they fall asleep like that – breathing each other’s air, knees knocking painlessly.

 

*******

 

The next few weeks pass by more quickly than Liam would like. He wants to spend endless days entwined with Harry, breathing him in and making him come in a non-stop cycle, right up until Harry’s twitching, nothing left in him for Liam to swallow, looking up at Harry from his knees. But the reality is that he still has to go to work, and Harry still has to go to uni.

It’s only when there’s a week before the wedding that he can skive off, telling Zayn he’s got to go buy a suit when it’s likely Zayn knows there’s already one tucked away in his walk-in wardrobe, black and timeless.

“Alrigh’,” Zayn acquiesces, eyeing Liam up as he shrugs on his suit jacket, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“See you!” Liam calls out, and it’s once he’s in front of Harry’s door that the nerves kick in – nerves at making this whole event real in Harry’s mind, and the worry that he’ll encounter Louis again, his sharp eyes roving over Liam like a bird fixated on its prey.

Harry opens the door, a little breathless, with a smile. He’s half-way out of it when he kisses Liam, head tilted up a little because he’s foregone shoes, it seems.

“Harry, your shoes.” Liam tells him once they separate, because Harry had seemed intent on leaving without them.

“Oh,” Harry frowns, and he brings a hand up to toy at his bottom lip nervously, “Hold on, then.”

The door’s ajar, and it seems strange that Harry was so rushed to leave – but it makes sense when Liam’s push leaves the room open to his curious eyes, and he sees Louis there on the sofa, clad in a pair of shorts and a large hoodie. He’s glaring at the television, even though it seems to be a rather happy episode of _Say Yes To The Dress._

Liam doesn’t say anything, voice having left him in his surprise. Harry hurries back, boots shoved on, and smiles at Liam a little wobbly, but nowhere near close to tears.

“Bye, Lou.” Harry calls out softly, but he receives no reply, and Liam watches Harry close the door behind him with a silent sigh, frown on his face.

“Harry,” Liam starts, unsure of where he’s going to finish – but Harry shakes his head, hair swaying with the movement.

“Don’t worry about it,” He smiles at Liam, grabbing his hand for some kind of reassurance, his grip a little clammy, “He’s alright.”

There’s nothing Liam can exactly say – Harry’s an adult, and he can make his own decisions about his friends, and how they treat him when they don’t like something. Liam wants so desperately for Louis to like him, though, if only for Harry’s sake – but it seems futile, if the younger man won’t even acknowledge Liam’s existence.

Harry nearly stops short at the car waiting for them – Liam supposes he should’ve said something – but manages to take it in stride, face clearing and that calm and composed look taking over, reminiscent of the first few times they met. Liam frowns, feeling his hands go damp with worry at the thought. They should be well past all that now; but when Liam opens his mouth to say something about it, he finds his voice has gone walkabout. Harry just looks an absolute picture, face turned toward the window. It’s overcast and foggy outside, even if it’s supposed to be getting warmer; it casts an ethereal glow onto Harry’s face, his curls a little wet like he just got out of the shower before leaving his dingy flat. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, with a light jacket thrown over the top. It looks old and worn, like Harry inherited it from someone.

Liam feels a little out of place, once more, with his suit – but changing felt like a waste of time, and it’s not like Harry’s going to be staying in those clothes for much longer.

“Liam,” Harry begins once they get out of the car; and it seems like he’s trying to frown as he stares up at the exterior of _Saint Laurent._

“My treat,” Liam explains, and Harry does frown then, ignoring the gentle tug of Liam’s hand. Liam tries not to let his impatient sigh out, instead cupping Harry’s right cheek with his hand, trying not to notice the way Harry won’t look him in the eyes. “Babe, I invited you. This is on me.”

“I can just get something from a thrift store, it’s no problem.” Harry smiles politely, and Liam almost closes his eyes on it, sick of seeing that look.

“ _Harry,_ ” Liam insists, pushing his hand into Harry’s cheek, making his eyes lock with Liam’s, “I know what you’re thinking, alright? But it’s like you said,” Liam raises his eyebrows, “This is mutual. I’m not doing this out of... out of pity, or whatever–” Liam swallows, clenching his jaw, “Or whatever Louis might think, alright?”

“That’s not–” Harry tries to rebut, but Liam cuts him off gently.

“It’s alright,” he reassures Harry, even if it itches at Liam, a never-ending discomfort, “But this is between us, yeah?”

Harry’s mute for a moment, eyes darting between Liam’s. His shoulders drop a bit, and he brings a hand up to circle Liam’s wrist. “Yeah.”

“Let me do this for you,” Liam pleads, removing his palm from Harry’s face but not letting Harry’s hand escape, bringing his knuckles up to kiss tenderly, “I want you to have this.”

“You know, Liam,” Harry says, but he’s smiling his cheeky smile, not the polite one, so Liam relaxes into the teasing tone, “Some might say you’re trying to buy me.”

“Some might,” Liam retorts, chuckling at Harry’s wide eyes and subsequent grin, “But I don’t have nearly enough money to do that.”

“Shut up,” Harry grumbles; but he’s grinning, anyway.

“Mr Payne,” Rosita greets him upon entry, Harry’s fingers tangled with his, Liam’s thumb rubbing back and forth over the cross tattoo, “How nice to see you again.”

“Rosita, Rosita,” Liam sighs, smiling, “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Liam?”

Rosita simply smiles, her dark brown hair impeccable in its low bun. Liam suddenly feels unkempt, his hair ruffled from the cool breeze outside, his glasses a tad askew.

“This is Harry,” He jumps to say, realising it’s a little awkward standing there without introducing them, “Harry, this is Rosita.”

Harry leans forward with his right hand, palm outstretched and dimples flashing. “Nice to meet you, Rosita.”

Rosita rolls her eyes, blushing a little as she accepts his handshake. Liam knows the feeling.

“Harry’s joining me at the wedding I bought for last month.” Liam tells her, and her eyes light up.

“Oh, very good, very good,” she enthuses, beckoning them to follow her. The store isn’t bustling – they never are, really, these designer places – and so there are only the curious but discreet eyes of the other staff that follow them to the suits section; no one likely to post a photo online, at any rate. Liam’s not exactly famous, but he’s well-known enough for what they’re doing and who he’s dragged along to be of note. He’d usually ring up beforehand, but it’s all felt a little spontaneous, even if he asked Harry weeks ago. Must be something about him – the dimples, the cheeky kisses when Liam’s brushing his teeth – that makes Liam feel a little younger, again. He tries not to think about it too much, well aware enough of their startling age gap already.

“Do you have something in mind, Harry?” Rosita asks, and Harry jumps – as if she interrupted a particularly engrossing train of thought, or she snuck up on him. Harry raises his eyebrows with a smile, giving a short laugh.

“Erm,” he starts, and Liam brings up their joined hands to give Harry’s knuckles a kiss, falling a little into the way Harry’s nose scrunches up, mouth twisting in a combination of embarrassment and fondness, “Not exactly. S’not, like, my usual place to shop, to be honest.”

“That’s perfectly alright,” Rosita assures him, and although she looks pristine in her own pant suit, there’s a warmth that emanates from her. Her eyes scan over Harry – his form lankier than Liam’s, his longer hair curling around his ears; his scuffed boots, his vintage t-shirt – and she hums. “Matching, yes?” she asks Liam, and Liam gives a weird sort of half-nod and shrug gesture, as if that’ll make him come off as cool and casual and not likely to have to excuse himself at the sight of Harry in a suit that complements his own.

Rosita leads them over to a rack near the side, where her careful hands peruse the display garments. She pulls out a shimmering paisley number, and then another that’s darker, without the paisley but just as eye-catching.

“We will have to measure you, Harry,” she announces, and Harry nods, like he was expecting this all along. He shrugs off his jacket, passing it to Liam before he tries to take off his t-shirt. “In the changing rooms.” Rosita clarifies, looking away and trying not to laugh.

Harry purses his lips on a smile, and Liam follows him through, sitting down on the provided sofa, lavish and extremely comfortable, to watch Rosita pull out her tape measure and scribble numbers into a small, black notebook.

“Maybe I should go like this,” Harry suggests once he’s down to his boxer briefs and nothing else, his curls brushing his collarbones and his eyes bright and cheerful, “It’s roomy.” He wiggles his hips, and Liam’s eyes drop to his crotch, watching the movement of him through the cotton material. If they were alone, Liam might say or do something entirely inappropriate for a public place; but as it is, he just shakes his head in exasperation and tries not to take notice of the way Harry’s dick rests so comfortably just off to the side, his balls looking heavy sitting beneath it.

“This will not fit exactly,” Rosita tells them, passing over the paisley suit, black dress shirt along with it, “But to get an idea...”

“Fits better than any other suit I’ve worn,” Harry remarks once [he’s pulling on the jacket,](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-2018-ready-to-wear/saint-laurent/slideshow/collection#26) back to Liam. Their gazes meet in the mirror, and Harry pushes his hair out of his face with a smile, “What do you think?”

Liam stands and walks over, thankful that Rosita’s given them a bit of privacy now that she’s left them with both outfit options. Harry’s clad in black, sleek slacks and a black button-down – something silky and baring half his chest – with the suit thrown over the top, no shoes to be seen. It works well, but Liam feels like they could do better, probably. Whether that’s because Liam just wants to see Harry in more suits, he’s not sure; but the point still stands.

Once he reaches Harry he slides a hand around his waist under the jacket, watching Harry turn his head in the mirror, jawline casting a shadow on his neck and his eyes latching onto Liam’s lips.

“You always look...” Liam swallows down the compliment, hopes that Harry knows what he’s thinking, “Try on the other one.”

Liam stands back but doesn’t sit down this time, his eyes travelling over the exposed skin of his boyfriend as he undresses, cock half-hard in his boxer briefs but neither of them saying anything. [He pulls on a white dress shirt this time,](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-2018-ready-to-wear/saint-laurent/slideshow/collection#23) fine piping lending it an air of formality the other ensemble was missing. The collar is sharp, and the loose, silk tie he winds around his neck makes Liam itch to touch. He pulls on the second suit jacket this time, and its darker almost glittery exterior highlights the cut of Harry’s slim hips, hugging his broad shoulders. The sleeves are a little short, and maybe it does need a bit more breathing room up top, upon closer inspection – but Liam thinks this is miles better. It’s just as Harry in style, but it fits the both of them; Liam ignores the churning of his gut at that, his neck feeling hot and flushed.

“How do you feel?” Liam asks, and he rubs the inside of Harry’s clothed elbows, the two of them now facing each other.

“Expensive,” Harry jokes, and Liam pinches him through the material in response, waiting, “It’s unreal, Liam. I can’t... I know we said this was mutual, but I could never do this for you.”

“You do other things for me,” Liam blurts out, and he knows Harry’s probably thinking about all the wrong things; not the fact that Harry puts a smile on his face even when he’s not around; or that Harry makes Liam unable to speak in the best kind of way. Harry’s probably thinking about blowjobs and coming and candle wax. But that’s the tiniest part of the equation that makes Harry the best thing in Liam’s life, and he’s not about to let Harry think that. “It’s been a long time since I’ve met someone like you,” Liam admits, and he steps away, lets Harry’s arms fall because he doesn’t want to give the wrong idea. This isn’t because of anything physical – not to Liam. “You’ve done so much for me, you don’t even know.”

When Liam turns back around, Harry’s staring at him, his eyes inquisitive. They rove over Liam’s face, and he says nothing – almost as if he’s waiting for Liam to continue.

“Can’t believe this didn’t take hours,” Liam jokes, chuckling. “You should pick something else out. For yourself.”

“Liam–”

“Go on, then,” Liam tells him, shooting him a smile, “I’ll wait outside, won’t I?”

Liam spends the next twenty minutes perusing the rest of the store, letting Rosita tend to Harry. He knows Harry’s got shoes to try, but he hopes he lets himself have something else, too. Something not for the wedding. Something that Harry can enjoy without feeling like Liam did it as some sort of obligation, or – if Harry still won’t believe him – as the worst kind of transaction.

He can’t quite vocalise the words, can he? It’s hard to do it without laying himself bare, setting himself up for disappointment. They have an expiration date, he repeats to himself over and over as he admires the array of accessories near the counter, and it’s best that Liam not push Harry into something that’s only going to end in unwanted rejections. Harry’s twenty – he surely doesn’t need that kind of pressure.

Liam hands over his credit card once Harry comes back out in his original outfit, Harry looking flummoxed at the afternoon’s events. Liam spies an extra bag, so he figures he got his wish – he just hopes he gets to see Harry in it sometime, luxurious and stunning.

He picks up a call just as they leave, his hand on the small of Harry’s back.

“Zayn?” He frowns into his mobile, stopping just off to the side of the entrance. “Did something happen?”

“Why do you always assume the worst when I call you on your mobile?” Zayn asks, and he sounds frustrated. Liam doesn’t mention other calls he’s got to his mobile, about hospitals and family.

“You never call me on here,” Liam points out instead, rubbing his thumb into Harry’s lower back under his jacket, feeling him lean into it.

“That’s because you used to sleep at the office,” Not entirely true, but Liam won’t argue, “Anyway, the point is – and I hate to say this, but – we need you in the studio,” Liam frowns again, “Just for a bit, yeah? Ryan called, said Freya burst out crying half-way through recording _Right and Left._ Think you could pop in, talk to her?”

“You wouldn’t mind, would you?” Liam asks Harry once Zayn rings off. “It’ll be an hour at most.” Harry tilts his head, smiles with a slight frown.

“Of course I wouldn’t mind.”

Liam had presumed, for no reason at all, that Harry had heard Zayn’s voice through his phone. But maybe Harry had been distracted, or thinking about other things, or simply trying to be polite – because when Liam walks into the recording session to see Freya sipping at a tea and looking a little lost, Harry stops short at the door.

It’s a professional environment, though, and Liam has no choice but to let it happen and stride on over to one of his clients, crouching down to look her in the eyes and ask what had happened.

“It’s all stale,” Freya groans, and her face is clear of tears now, at least. Liam’s not so good with the crying, “I hate it. And I’m sorry, I know that’s not what you wanted to hear – but nothing’s good enough, is it? You took a chance on me and I’m here fucking it all up, and now I’m telling you this and you’re my _boss_ and everything’s just _awful._ ”

“Right,” Liam responds weakly, patting her knee lightly in comfort, “You’re being a right downer, Freya.”

“Mr Payne,” Freya starts, and Liam rolls his eyes.

“Come on, drop it. You’re not much younger than me, yeah?” Freya bites at her lips, frowning. “And all of us hate what we’re trying to write at points, don’t we? That’s what writing is. You don’t think the greats – you don’t think The Beatles loved everything they wrote, did you? You don’t think Beyoncé’s gone and had a bit of a cry after a day in studio?” The woman in front of him huffs out a garbled laugh. “Freya, you’re putting your thoughts and feelings out there for everyone to see. And on top of that, you hope they’re going to make you money.” Liam laughs lightly, shaking his head. Harry’s still in the doorway – there’s been no sound, no movement behind Liam. “Nothing about this is going to be _good._ ”

“Not what it’s cracked up to be, is it?” Freya jokes, and that seems to bring the emotional level of the room down – he hears Ryan breathe out an almost silent sigh of relief from the sound desk. Liam ought to sit down with him, too; a producer needs to know how to reassure their artist.

“It’s worth it,” Liam tells her, and he straightens, lets Freya stand up as well, “You know that. But all of us are here to support you – and most of all, you’re meant to talk to us if you don’t like something, alright? This process is all about communication, yeah?”

“Right,” Freya agrees, nodding her head, “Yeah, alright. Well,” She takes a deep breath, peering around Liam to look at Ryan, “Ryan, I fucking hate this song.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, eyes wide, “Figured that.”

Freya laughs – a little wetly maybe – as she walks over to sit next to him, suddenly talking a mile a minute about what they should change.

Harry’s still by the door when Liam gets there, and so he tilts his head in askance. “What’s wrong?”

“Erm,” Harry begins, and his cheeks go a little pink, “You do know that’s Freya Moss, right?”

“Yeah, Haz,” Liam laughs, raising his eyebrows, “I told you, I’m working with her.”

“Right, right,” Harry replies, nodding his head quickly, “Yeah, ‘course.”

“What,” Liam starts, grinning, “are you star struck?”

“Fuck off,” Harry grumbles, looking away, “S’not like I meet someone who’s in my iTunes every day, do I?”

“Come on,” Liam tugs at his arm, “I’ll introduce you.”

“Liam,” Harry panics, refusing to follow but helpless to Liam’s pulling, almost stumbling in his old boots, “No, come on, give me a moment–”

“Freya,” Liam calls out, and she turns to him, frowning, “This is Harry. Harry, this is Freya.”

“Oh,” Freya says, and she smiles, “Hello. Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

“That’s quite alright,” Harry says, and he sounds a little faint. Liam tries not to grin too wide, entwining their fingers and letting Harry cut off his circulation. “Sorry, I’ve just got to say – I’m a massive fan. _Right and Left_ ’s actually one of my favourites.”

“Is it really?” Freya asks, eyebrows raised in surprised, “You must’ve been at one of my gigs, then.”

“Yeah,” Harry says slowly, and he brings up his free hand to pull at his bottom lip, that nervous gesture of his, “Saw you about a year ago now, give or take. I really like the way you play around with lyrics – you know, _you said ‘Right,’ and left, but forgot that you’re my right and I’m your left and we go with one another_... I don’t know; it’s just, like, artful.”

Freya doesn’t say anything for a moment before she grins. “Liam, I’m keeping this one.”

They’re in the studio for another thirty or so minutes, Liam moving away to ask Ryan questions and get his take on it all. Freya’s chatting a mile a minute, and Harry’s nodding thoughtfully, all his focus on her. It’s only when she gets up to use the bathroom that Harry seems to remember they’re not alone, turning his head to smile at Liam.

It’s hard to hear what Ryan’s saying, then – because Harry’s smiling at him in a way that steals Liam’s breath from his lungs, has him wishing he could hunch over and gasp for air. But it’s fine – he inhales sharply and exhales slowly and everything is alright. That look and that smile stay with him, though, even as Freya returns and Harry swivels back to her.

How can Liam let Harry go? How can he be with him and accept that there’s an end date? How can Liam give any of this up when he’s so fucking happy?

“Did Niall tell you, then?” Harry asks when they get back into the car, and Liam frowns, shooting Harry a confused look. “That it was my birthday last week?”

“It was your birthday?” Liam asks, feeling his heart sink a little – he didn’t know. He _should’ve_ known.

“I just thought–” Harry shakes his head, curls swaying as he smiles, looking down at their hands and playing with Liam’s fingers idly, “I don’t know. With Freya, I thought, maybe...”

“If I’d known I would’ve invited her to dinner with us,” Liam tells him, shifting closer and feeling too confined in his suit, “Maybe another time.”

“That was mean, what you did,” Harry says, though he’s smiling, “I looked like such an idiot.”

“She liked you,” replies Liam, shaking his head, “Trust me, you were fine.”

“Well,” Harry says, laughing to himself, seemingly at ease with the way he’s come across, even if he thought it unimpressive, “At least I was memorable, I guess.”

“Definitely,” Liam agrees boldly, confident, “There’s nothing about you that I could forget.”

Harry looks at him steadily then, his eyes darting between Liam’s. He lingers for a few moments before he leans forward to kiss him, the slightest brush of lips together. He drops down after, leaning his forehead against Liam’s lapel and sighing. He mumbles something, but Liam can’t catch it – it’s too buried in the woollen blend of Liam’s attire.

Harry’s pliant when they get in to Liam’s penthouse, sticking to him like they’re truly attached at the hip. He’s pliant when he undresses, heavy eyes on Liam, and he’s pliant when Liam slides his thumbs into him, lube easing the way as Harry shudders, his back to Liam’s chest. His thighs clench and release spasmodically with the position, and when he nudges his arse back into Liam, pulling him further inside him with every movement; he’s pliant even then.

Liam holds Harry by his biceps, leaning forward to rest his forehead on the middle of his back wearily. It’s overwhelming, being so close to Harry like this – almost as if his nerves are set alight with each touch, the synapses in his brain firing off in quick succession trying to understand and process all the emotions and feelings Harry is putting him through.

“Liam?” Harry chokes out, and he’s still shuddering, endless now.

“Yeah, babe?” Liam replies, letting his nose rub against Harry’s skin as he lifts his head, sliding his hands up until he’s gripping Harry’s shoulders, as if his cock isn’t throbbing inside him; as if he might just start massaging him instead, tender and sensual.

Harry doesn’t reply, but Liam tugs him back into his chest anyway, the stubble of his cheeks scratching against Harry’s with every bounce of him in Liam’s lap, his torso long and stretched as he gasps into the quiet of the room. Liam brings his right arm up to circle his chest, palm flat against the butterfly, pressing in enough that Harry can’t forget he’s there, hoping without any logic that his fingerprints embed themselves there, skin sensitive and red with Liam’s unique pattern.

Liam shifts back, his mouth to Harry’s ear. “Happy Birthday, baby.” He murmurs, and Harry jolts as if someone’s pinched him too hard, the muscles underneath Liam’s palm shivering uncontrollably. Liam lets himself look, sees Harry’s cock bouncing, leaking so much pre-come that Liam imagines it’s pooling underneath his balls, like Liam could dip a hand down and use it as lube to finger him open. Liam squeezes his eyes shut, trying so desperately not to let go so soon. Not until Harry does.

“Can I come, can I come, can I come, can I come, can I come–?” Harry’s mumbling, a little incoherent, his whole body trembling as he breathes out the words, no pauses taken.

“Let me see you.” Liam manages to get out, suddenly yanking Harry back into him even closer, their skin sliding against each other with sweat. Everything aches, both good and bad, and Liam wants this moment to go on for as long as he’s alive on Earth, a constant replay of the way Harry clenches around him as he comes untouched, shivering, a sobbing sort of sound coming from between his lips. That’s all it takes for Liam to follow, punching his hips up into Harry once, twice, before he’s grunting through his own release, the trembles wracking Harry every few seconds making his orgasm last longer than it usually does.

Liam manoeuvres them so they can separate properly, Harry lax at his side as Liam ties off the condom, placing it carefully on his bedside before turning back, kissing Harry on his forehead softly, lingering.

Harry wriggles around a minute later until his right hand rests on Liam’s bicep; his eyes are a little wide, doe-like, as he blinks up at Liam, whose head rests on the pillow, his left arm raised up behind him. He’s sure he’s got about ten million chins looking down at Harry like this, so he shifts up a bit to ease the strain on his neck, watching as Harry’s hand leaves his bicep to trail up his bent arm, slightly ticklish, until it rests against his wrist joint, brushing over it again and again in a lover’s caress.

Liam lets the back of his hand graze Harry’s cheek, mimicking Harry’s movement.

They stay like that comfortably until Harry breaks the silence – well, aside from Watson’s light snoring coming in from under the door.

“Results came back,” He tells Liam quietly, almost a whisper as he looks down at Liam’s inked skin, “Negative. Got them in my bag if you want to take a look.”

Liam hums sleepily, letting his thumb poke gently at the corner of Harry’s serious looking almost-pout. His green eyes flick up, lock onto Liam’s.

“Two for two, then,” Liam replies with a small smile, “Whenever shall I come on your face?”

Harry barks out a laugh, burying his face into the mattress to muffle the loud sound. His shoulders shake in mirth, and he lifts his head up only once he’s managed to control himself, grin wide.

“I was thinking,” he starts, and he shimmies up so their mouths are almost touching, his lips still split into a grin, “Maybe breakfast? That’s how I usually start my day, Liam. You should know this.”

“Oh, of course,” Liam agrees, watching the way Harry’s eyes light up as he plays along, “Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Facials three times a day. No wonder your skin’s so soft.”

“ _Liam!_ ” Harry squawks, unable to continue the joke, laughing into the pillow beside Liam. He lifts his head to press an exasperated kiss into Liam’s lips, but then he’s laughing again, giggling as Liam tries to keep kissing him, sitting up so he can grab at Harry and pushing him onto his back playfully as he chases the gleeful sounds.

As Harry laughs, there’s only one thing resonating in Liam’s mind – _how the bloody hell am I going to go without this?_

 

*******

 

“I’m taking you out.” Liam announces barely a week later, Harry’s haggard appearance entering his flat inspiring him. He deserves something he doesn’t have to think about – a night out that he won’t have to pay for, won’t have to organise... it’s honestly the least Liam can do, for all that Harry’s done for him.

“Yeah?” Harry prods, smiling in that way that lets Liam know Harry doesn’t think he’s serious.

“Yeah,” Liam replies, over his shoulder and as nonchalant as he can get, open beer in hand, “A proper date and all that. We haven’t really been, Haz.”

Harry hums, humouring him.

“You bought something else, didn’t you?” Liam asks once he sits down, continuing on without a reply, “At the shops? Wear it, Harry. We’ll go somewhere fancy.”

“Fancy, hey?” Harry probes, his eyes crinkling just a bit with his smile, a hand coming up to run through Liam’s hair; it’s due for a cut, but Liam loves the tender way Harry treats it.

“Proper fancy,” answers Liam, kissing the only thing within reach, which is Harry’s bare wrist.

He manages to pull some strings – unusual, but he feels like it’s a special occasion, even if Harry’s birthday was two weeks ago. It’s special to Liam; the first time he can take his boyfriend out, treat him to what he deserves. Everything else has been a battle or a fight just to have Harry reluctantly agree. Maybe Liam needs this; some kind of proof outside of his penthouse walls that they mean something when they’re together. It’s likely dangerous – after all, wouldn’t it be better if Liam fooled himself into thinking they only mattered in Kensington? Probably. But Liam’s never much gone by the logical way of things; not when his life’s been a mismatch of whatever’s been thrown at him and the slightest shreds of possible happiness. Maybe this is what they both deserve right now – something peaceful. Something real, maybe.

“Did Rosita tell you to get this?” Liam breathes when Harry walks out from their bedroom into the living room, Watson almost tripping over his heels.

“What?” Harry laughs, “No, I picked this out. You asked me to, Liam.”

“I know I did,” Liam responds, his eyes roving over the leather clad thighs of the younger man, [the gaping neckline of his sheer blouse](https://www.vogue.com/fashion-shows/spring-2018-ready-to-wear/saint-laurent/slideshow/collection#18). If he didn’t benefit so much, Liam might tell him to put something else on over the top. It’s all black bar the gold, glittery stars of the shirt, the frills of the neckline lending a soft quality to the hardness of Harry’s torso, his tattoos on display like his body is merely a show piece, a way for artists to share their work. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s what Harry wants it to be. Either way, Liam’s having trouble looking away.

“I look terrible in comparison,” Liam laments, barely thinking of himself as he watches the way his hands drift over Harry’s arms, down his chest to his hips and squeezing, “You’re showing me up.”

Suddenly his charcoal grey suit seems rather bland, even if it is Armani. The dotted tie with light blue button-down is all too casual now, and Liam adjusts his glasses nervously – his eyes have been tired, so poking at them to get his contacts in seems far too much effort.

Harry’s large hands come up to frame Liam’s spectacles, one of his thumbs rubbing underneath where they rest on the bridge of Liam’s nose.

“You look so smart,” He acknowledges, eyes searching Liam’s face as if for a flaw, “So mature.” Liam chuckles, unfairly reminded of just how old he is. “Why don’t you wear them more often?”

Liam raises an eyebrow, quizzical smile breaching his lips. “I dunno, really. They feel... clunky.”

“They look wonderful.” Harry announces without a hint of teasing or shame, like he’s genuinely confused as to why Liam doesn’t wear them more often. He remembers, now, that he’d been wearing them when they met. Maybe their absence had been surprising at the breakfast interview. Maybe Harry had felt he was meeting a different person on that Saturday morning, and now he’s back to square one.

“They’re just glasses.” Liam says blandly, and Harry smiles, something small and private and, if Liam were to look closer, a little sad at the edges.

“Come on,” Liam interrupts the moment with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, really, “Our reservation’s in a half hour.”

“Reservation?” Harry parrots, and his smile turns cheeky, indulgent. Liam feels his chest go tight. “You treat me well, Liam.”

“Shut it.” Liam mumbles, trying to fight back the red that’s threatening to stain his cheeks, wondering how on earth a few inconsequential words from Harry render him incapable of keeping his cool when he’s eaten him out – had him begging to come – with barely a flicker of anxiety.

“You like seafood, don’t you?” Liam asks, suddenly feeling heat under his collar because he never asked, and he got Zayn to book something exclusively seafood simply because it was so highly rated he’d doubt they’d have a bad dish.

“Love it.” Harry replies, giving him a reassuring smile.

He’s a little different once they reach the restaurant, smile turning a tad cold and nervous as the maître d' greets them.

“I’m sorry,” Liam blurts out when they sit down, the light and bright interior of the modern, high-rise restaurant suddenly seeming too immaculate, too impressive, for the likes of them, “I thought you’d like it.”

“I love it, Liam,” Harry replies, shooting Liam a brighter smile, something a bit more genuine than the one that’s been frozen in place since they entered, “Sorry, I’m just not used to it.”

“Don’t apologise,” says Liam, and he nudges his knee against Harry’s, entwines their fingers next to the bread basket, “I just want you to enjoy yourself.”

“I’m with you, aren’t I?” Harry says, and he presses his knee more firmly into Liam’s, the touch distracting him from the way the other patrons are eying Harry’s garish outfit sceptically.

It’s difficult, when Harry says things like that. It’s so difficult, because all Liam wants to do is blurt out something he’ll regret, and he spends the next hour trying to swallow it all back, the emotions bubbling in his throat and threatening to break everything he’s built so far, every tenuous bridge of trust and affection. He doesn’t doubt that Harry cares for him – but how much is unknown, and the lengths to which Harry is willing to keep them going is also hard to tell. It’s easier when Liam just lets it happen, and he needs to stop himself from throwing that four-letter spanner into the works.

The awkwardness only hovers for ten minutes or so, in which Liam pretends to know anything about wine or how to pronounce the French things on the menu. Harry tells him not to bother, and then there’s nothing awkward about it. They go with an easy squid for entrée, and then Harry orders scallops for main, having no idea what they’ll taste like; and Liam orders halibut, hoping it’s as good as its sauce sounds. They’re sculling the wine without any discussion about its flavour or tannins, and Harry kisses Liam for a good minute or two until their waitress clears her throat, wondering if they’d like the dessert menu.

The conversation flows like all of theirs do, with teasing and friendly jabs and sexual innuendo running all throughout; but it’s only once they’ve ordered their dessert and Harry shuffles his chair closer than anything substantial comes up, Liam’s throat feeling tight and unusable in the process.

“You never said,” Harry starts, his head tilted, one half of his curls brushing his shoulders, the other half resting on a flushed cheek, “Why you took over from the company.”

“Oh,” Liam begins, frowning, gulping down a mouthful or two of white without cringing – a fair feat; “Well, it’s what had to be done, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” Harry responds, picking Liam’s hand up and placing the back of it on his over-heated cheek, like they’re not talking business at all, “But it’s what would’ve happened eventually, yeah?”

“Erm,” Liam stutters, trying to figure out all of the pangs swirling around in his chest, making his heart sting, “Maybe. Probably. Not for a while, though.” He frowns, the words caught in his throat. “I, err...” His eyes follow the lines of Harry’s young face, his imploring expression. It would be so easy, being twenty again. “I never really wanted it.” He winces once the words are out, rubbing a hand over his prickly jaw. “Christ, it sounds so ungrateful when I say it like that. S’just not me, all this high up stuff.” Harry’s still cradling Liam’s hand, still resting his hot cheek against it. He seems curious, not thoughtful; not judgmental, like everyone else. “I was always better down in the studio, locked away and talking to the musicians and just, I dunno... not worrying so much.”

“And that’s what you want to do?” Harry asks, “When you can pass it all on? You’ll want to work in the studio?”

“I...” Liam clears his throat, pulls away his hand from Harry’s cheek, “I’m not going to pass it on, Harry.”

“Why not?” Harry asks, and it’s not in a petulant way, or a naïve way – it’s the simplest question anyone’s ever asked Liam since he got shoved into the job, actually. Why not? Why can’t he pass it on? Why does he have to live out his days doing something he never planned to do, continuing a legacy he was never expected to persist with?

“Who else?” Liam mumbles, and Harry moves closer, then, their knees knocking, a hand coming up to Liam’s right shoulder, another to his left jaw.

“It’s not you,” Harry murmurs, and then he’s leaning his forehead against Liam’s. Liam has the troubling thought that this is too close, too much for a public place; but the weight of Harry’s hands on him and the heat of his breath against his lips has him forgetting it all in the briefest of moments. “I saw you with Freya – that’s where you’re meant to be, what you’re meant to be doing.”

“Harry,” Liam breathes, closing his eyes for a second, trying not to succumb to the daydream, “Come on.”

There’s a pause, like Harry is contemplating that reprimand; like he’s truly wondering whether it’s warranted. Then he speaks, dangerous and truthful. Naïve, Zayn would say. Young and optimistic, he’d add.

“You can always be yourself with me.” Harry whispers, and Liam feels his heart tumble around in his chest, like it’s pinballing every which way because it doesn’t quite know how to react.

“Thank you.” Liam says, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, feeling their noses bump. He pulls away with a short kiss, far more quickly than he would have liked, clearing his throat.

“Are you in for something sweet, or savoury?” Liam asks, trying to lighten the mood with a smile. “There’s a cheese board, if we’re feeling extra fancy.”

“I’m always feeling extra fancy, Liam.” Harry announces, his dimples breaking free as he shoots Liam a certain kind of look; playful, enticing.

It doesn’t amount to anything, though; Harry pulls Liam’s arm over him in bed later that night, and Liam rubs at his slightly bloated stomach, letting Harry tangle their fingers and nuzzle comfortably into the dark grey pillows of Liam’s bed.

Liam tries to ignore the way Harry settles so easily into Liam’s every crevice, like a glue that seeps into the cracks and binds them all together. The wedding doesn’t help matters, not when Liam picks Harry up, Niall catcalling from within the flat when Harry kisses him hello, duffle bag in hand.

“It’s only two nights, Haz,” Liam reminds me, feeling his eyes crinkle with his smile, though he’s a little taken aback at the way Harry’s jiggling a leg nervously in the passenger seat.

“Leave me alone, Liam,” Harry retorts with a roll of his eyes, shoving at Liam’s shoulder, “If I want to bring my whole closet, I will.”

“Alright, alright,” Liam responds with placation, pursing his lips to hold back his smile, “Consider me convinced.”

They spend the Thursday night driving to Bath, and when they arrive at the venue – where Liam decided it was easier to book a room at than have to commute the morning of – Harry’s looking around the place with a thoughtful expression, smiling when he catches Liam staring.

“I’ve never stayed in a suite before,” Harry comments once he’s dropped his bag at the foot of the bed and peeked into the living room that comes off the bedroom, the whole place decked in calm blues and greens, with an off-white base, “And I definitely haven’t stayed in a place that has a telly in the bathroom, Liam!” He calls out from said room, his voice echoing.

“There’s a first time for everything!” Liam calls back, smiling as he undoes his cufflinks, shrugging off his jacket onto the bed and letting his tie loosen. He makes his way to the doorway, leaning against it to watch the way Harry’s picking up all the soap products, reading the labels with the slightest frown on his face. There is indeed a telly in the bathroom, and the bath itself sits in prime position, towel racks on either side. There are two showers – a little unnecessary, but what does Liam know? – that are tucked away in the corner, adjacent to the television and opposite the bath and vanity. It’s a comforting, albeit bright room. Liam tries not to think too hard about the seat he can see through the glass doors of the shower.

“Are you hungry?” Liam asks, even if it’s late and they ate burgers at a stop somewhere along the way. He just wants to wipe that small frown off of Harry’s face, something in him twisting at its presence.

“No, I’m fine,” answers Harry, still distracted by the soaps. He’s running his hands over the fine detailing of the vanity, his fingers stopping only to pick up another expensive bath product.

Liam leaves him to it, wondering what sort of mood has come over him, and whether it’s something that Liam needs to try to figure out for the sake of maintaining a pleasant weekend. But Harry’s not like that – he’s not like Sophia was, a little broody and unlikely to speak her mind about it. Liam doesn’t have to tread on eggshells with him, he has to remind himself as he sheds the rest of his clothing, leaving himself in forest green boxer briefs before he pads his way into the living room, landing heavily on the sofa and looking around at the pale walls and the darkness out the window. The clock on the wall reads _10:34_ , and Liam rubs at his tired eyes, the nearly three hours of driving getting to him.

Harry joins him barely five minutes later, his navy button-down and jeans looking overly formal next to Liam’s bare skin. Liam lets his hand fall on Harry’s left thigh, rubbing absently at the muscle as Harry hums, leaning away to rest his head on the sloping back of the sofa.

“Zayn’s got a big family, you said?” Harry murmurs, and Liam swings his head slowly to his right to look at his clear face, lids closed and eyelashes looking longer than usual. His hair’s a tad greasy – likely from the car ride – and he’s got the tiniest bit of peach fuzz above his upper lip.

“Yeah,” Liam replies quietly, and Harry opens his eyes to look at him, a tiny quirk to his lips, “Massive. It’s going to be traditional, sherwanis and saris and all that, mixed with a more Western sort of deal with Perrie’s side of the family. It’s going to be...” Liam huffs out a light chuckle, “positively mad.”

“Sounds fun,” Harry comments lightly, “I’m glad you invited me, Liam.”

“Yeah?” Liam prods, sliding his gaze down to his hand on Harry’s denim-encased thigh, “I’m glad you said yes.”

“I’ll always say yes to you,” Harry admits shamelessly, as if the words don’t grab at Liam’s heart and squeeze painfully.

Liam wants to say something, tell Harry he _shouldn’t._ But the moment passes as Harry stands, groaning before he stretches tall. “D’you want a shower? I’m about to pass out.”

“No.” Liam answers, looking out the window and wondering when he’ll muster up the courage to tell Harry the truth, three words to fall from his lips in the simplest of ways. Instead he smiles up at him and ushers him away, hearing the taps _clank_ on and the soft singing that accompanies it soon after.

When he wakes up the next morning, Harry almost on top of him and snoring lightly into Liam’s shoulder, he almost dreads what’s to come. He never fully realised what they’d have to do, going to a wedding like this. Sitting through the ceremony, Liam introducing Harry to everyone, dancing, watching Zayn and Perrie start their legal lives together... it’s more than Liam fathomed when he mumbled out the question in bed, overcome with emotion he can now name.

Liam hasn’t been to many weddings – the last being his sister’s, which he doesn’t much reminisce about – but he knows the ceremony is beautiful, even if he can’t understand half of the words, Urdu foreign to his ears.

Harry holds his hand in a vice grip when Zayn and Perrie kiss, and then they’re all off to the reception, which is being held just across the way from their suite, the day blessing Zayn and Perrie with sun despite the preparations for questionable weather with a marquee. It’s colourful, even if Perrie is wearing a white dress, intricate lace detailing matching the embroidery on Zayn’s sherwani.

The first dances are lively and happy, and Harry leans in close to ask Liam all sorts of questions – questions he barely knows the answers to, only remembering bits and pieces of what Zayn’s told him over the years.

More guests have arrived for the reception, and soon there are too many people to talk to, Harry’s fingers entwined with his as they drink champagne and taste the small delicacies renowned in Zayn’s family. Lunch is a three-course meal, and Liam laughs when Harry has to ask one of the servers for milk, his lips looking red and swollen with spice.

“You get used to it,” Liam tells him as he pops some gum in his mouth after, “I was about the same at first.”

Liam sips at his champagne as Danny stands up, Best Man, to start the toasting.

“Now I know I’m not who you expected – I’m not even who _Zayn_ expected, actually–”

“ _Rok dana!_ ” Zayn exclaims from his seat beside Perrie at the rectangular table, everyone else seated at the circular tables, the colours orange and pink taking precedence.

“This is the sort of treatment I get,” Danny continues, shaking his head as everyone laughs, “Liam, reign him in, will you?”

“Shut up!” Liam calls out, startling his guest beside him as everyone else laughs again.

That’s about all he gets to say, however, and he sits back to watch Danny talk about Zayn as a kid, and how he grew up to be the best kind of adult until he met Perrie, at which point he turned into a kid again. It’s a good speech – the kind of speech Liam would never have been able to give – and Liam finds his cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

“What’d Danny mean,” Harry starts, leaning in close as Leigh-Anne, Perrie’s Maid of Honour, starts her toast, “when he asked you to reign Zayn in?”

“He’s just joking about,” Liam explains, thanking a server when his wine gets topped up, “I was meant to give the speech, but told Zayn he should pick Danny instead.”

Harry nods, but then he frowns, his glass half-way to his pink lips. “Wait, you mean Best Man?”

“Yeah,” Liam answers, smiling, “Zayn should have his best mate up there.”

Harry’s eyes roam over his face, searching for something unidentifiable.

The speeches finish without a lot of aplomb, everyone cheering and whistling as Zayn and Perrie kiss, not as G-rated as everyone had hoped considering the boos, and the errant forkful of rice that gets thrown at them, hitting Zayn right in the cheek and causing him to pull away with a roll of his eyes, the grin on his face likely permanent at this rate.

Harry pulls Liam onto the dance floor soon enough, and Liam mostly finds himself laughing into the crook of his elbow at the way Harry’s glittery suit jacket attracts the lights, both his dance moves and his attire blinding everyone in sight.

“You’re ridiculous,” Liam manages to get out, pulling Harry into him, a hand on his waist and his other cradling Harry’s, stopping him from wriggling away and hurting himself with the enthusiasm of his dancing.

“I’m confident, Liam,” Harry laughs, and then Liam just has to kiss him, the wedding around them coming to a standstill, everything else fading out. “There’s...” Harry licks his lips, a little breathless, “There’s a difference.”

Liam hums, and he tunes back into the real world to realise the music’s gone slow, that everyone around them is swaying from side to side, Zayn and Perrie off to the side with their foreheads against each other’s.

“You can slow dance, at least?” Liam prods, and Harry’s nose scrunches up, his mouth twisting as he obviously tries not to laugh. He pinches just behind Liam’s ear, forearm resting on Liam’s shoulder.

“Don’t be facetious,” Harry tells him with a smile, and then leans in close so their faces are side by side, Harry’s curls tickling Liam’s cheeks, “It doesn’t suit you.”

Liam doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t think he could if he tried, Harry moving them around like this, Liam helpless to follow. _A little too close to home,_ Liam thinks. Harry could do anything and Liam would be pulled alongside him, swept up in his tide.

The night ends with Zayn hugging Liam before the newly wedded couple leave, the crowd surrounding them still loud despite the late hour, the long day seeming not to affect them.

“Thank you,” Zayn exclaims into Liam’s ear, hugging him long and hard, “You didn’t have to do this.”

“Of course I did,” Liam replies, “Anything for you, mate.”

“ _Rok dana._ ” Zayn sighs as he pulls back, pushing at Liam’s quiffed hair and dislodging his glasses a bit.

“Shut up.” Liam repeats in English, laughing as Zayn rolls his eyes, hugging him once more before moving on to Harry, surprising him with an embrace.

The fatigue hits once they’re back in their suite, Liam unravelling his bowtie and removing his cufflinks with Harry spread-eagled on the bed.

“S’long day,” Liam announces to the room.

Harry makes a sound of agreement. His shirt is gaping open, tattoos on show.

“We should take a bath,” Harry declares, his head lolling to his opposite shoulder to stare up at Liam standing over him, “Use up all that soap. Get soapy.”

Liam snickers, removing his dress shirt so he’s left in unbuttoned slacks and socks.

He starts up the bath, erring on the side of too hot because he knows the steam will calm him, the burning temperature likely to ease his throbbing muscles. He’s getting too old for these things, is the problem.

“I’m so achy,” Harry complains as he seats himself opposite Liam, his legs bumping into Liam’s even if the bath is more than big enough for the two of them. “I’m so _old._ ”

“Oi,” Liam says, pushing at Harry’s side with his foot, “Watch it.” Harry just circles his ankle instead, not letting go as he rests the nape of his neck on the tub’s rim, eyes lazy as he gazes at Liam.

The bath water feels filmy on Liam’s skin given the bath oils Harry dunked in, too keen on feeling slippery. It means he sinks a little in the tub, his palm coming down to rest on Harry’s shin thoughtlessly.

“Don’t you wish we could stay here forever?” Harry murmurs, and Liam opens his eyes to see Harry is still looking at him.

“We can’t,” Liam points out, lips twitching into a smile.

“Still,” Harry returns, the tips of his curls wet and his face damp with condensation given the steam, “don’t you?”

It feels like a dream, lying there in the water and watching the way Harry closes his eyes, licking at his lips and imagining whatever it is he’s imagining; the two of them forever tied in this bathroom, a hand around an ankle and another resting on a shin. Maybe he sees their skin go wrinkly, the lavender of the bath soap never leaving it; the two of them withering away until they’re part of it all – maybe they end up in the garden, roots tangled; or maybe they become the earth, trodden on and dug up and so easy to forget about. Liam’s not sure it much matters, either way. It’s a dream, and Liam never thought he’d dream of a love like this, let alone one that could possibly last as long and as stubbornly as that.

It’s an ache in his chest as he looks at Harry, this love. It’s a desire so deep that Liam knows he won’t ever rid himself of it. He’ll be old and grey and Harry will be off with another and someone – maybe Zayn, if they’re still friends – will ask him ‘whatever happened to that bloke? Y’know, young and curly and the love of your life?’ and Liam won’t feel any different at the question, so steady and unrelenting is his love for Harry. He’ll have thought about Harry that morning, is the thing; he’ll have remembered the way Harry looked beneath him, breathing heavily in the aftermath of a climax; he’ll have remembered the cheeky smile Harry shot his way with every teasing remark.  ‘Nothing happened,’ Liam will reply, ‘I fell in love and I let him go. He’s happy.’

That same someone might nod knowingly, and then merely comment on the weather.

Liam feels this all in his bones, the inevitable way it’ll play out. Yet as Harry lies in the water with him, young and new and unknowing, Liam can’t bring himself to let him go just yet. It’s not the right time. Liam just wants to have him for a bit longer.

Their skin is soft and smooth when they pull the plug in the bath, Harry laughing at the slurping sound it makes with the suction. They’re naked when they tumble into bed, sticky with soap and still damp. Harry lies under him, their mouths moving against each other. Liam licks into Harry, feels their tongues brush each other. He buries a hand in Harry’s hair, tilting his head up so Liam can kiss him more thoroughly, slow and sensual and meandering.

It’s by accident that they both get hard, really. It’s subconscious that Harry lifts his hips up into Liam’s, their cocks rubbing as they continue to kiss with barely a breath between.

“Liam,” it’s a mumble as they break apart, Harry’s voice lost when Liam kisses him again. “Liam,” Harry repeats, a little more firmly. Liam’s mouth feels as swollen as Harry’s looks, red and used. “Please, I need you.”

Harry spreads his legs when Liam enters him, scissoring his fingers quickly and watching the way Harry fidgets, shifting so his torso is a little further up the bed.

He takes his time, kissing Harry all the while, fighting back a shiver when Harry’s tongue grazes the roof of his mouth.

In the end, it’s Harry who pulls his fingers away and replaces them with Liam’s length, who pulls back to look into Liam’s eyes as they move together, slow and easy and with no purpose. Liam thinks he gets it now, Harry’s question – he wishes he could stay here forever, in and around Harry, not coming, not even close... but just existing there, in that place.

Harry brings his hand up to brush a thumb under Liam’s left eye, curls splayed around his head and his expression gentle. Liam looks down at him, feels Harry’s ankles crossed at his lower back; he’s lazy like this, sated and content. Liam’s eyes browse his face, his neck, catch on the birds tattooed on his chest.

Maybe Sophia was more attractive in some ways. Liam in his twenties might’ve made the distinctions; might’ve said that Sophia didn’t have the love handles Harry did. He might’ve said that Sophia’s skin was smoother, had less imperfections. He might’ve said that she didn’t let her stress show so much; that she didn’t let other people’s opinions bother her as much, either.

Liam’s not in his twenties, though. Liam’s not shallow anymore – and he doesn’t count up the things that make up Harry as pros and cons. Harry is Harry because he’s the sum of everything that _makes_ him Harry. If Liam took anyway any of the things that his younger self might’ve noticed as less appealing, then he wouldn’t be left with the genuine article.

He’s not going to deconstruct Harry so he can ‘take the bad with the good’, or ‘accept him no matter what’, or ‘love him despite his flaws’, and all those things magazines say to teenagers about love as if they’ve got any sort of clue.

Liam’s not like that anymore, and he doesn’t think about it as they move together now, bodies in sync and hearts beating in tandem. Liam doesn’t think anything at all but the most absolute truth.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known,” He admits to them both, shifting his weight so he can push a hand through Harry’s curls, eyes darting between his. “Everything about you is art, did you know?”

Harry looks serious for a moment, eyes tracing the lines of Liam’s face before his lips gradually curl into a smile, dimples forming as slow as molasses. His green eyes are bright despite the low light from the bedside lamp, and he starts to laugh.

He keeps going and going, even as entwined as they are, and Liam feels his heart beat double-time.

“You should laugh more often,” Liam murmurs once he’s calmed down a bit, brushing their lips together, “All the time, actually.”

“I’ll make plans.” Harry promises, grinning transparently wide.

They come unhurriedly, and Liam slips from Harry to lick at the mess on his stomach, right up to his butterfly.

“You didn’t come on my face,” Harry mumbles once he’s done, eyes closed. He’s loose and docile, and Liam lowers himself gently beside him so as not to disturb his doze.

“No,” Liam murmurs, and he brushes Harry’s hair away from his forehead, watches his eyes flutter open, the green of them no longer jarring. “I came in you, though.”

Harry snorts, closing his eyes again as Liam rearranges the bedding, the sheet coming up over the both of them. They’ll have to shower in the morning; but, for now, the night feels peaceful, the room quiet with only their soft breaths. Liam turns out the bedside light, and he holds Harry to him, feeling the rise and fall of Harry through his chest, Harry’s shoulders in his eye-line.

They lie together in the dark, and somehow that makes Liam brave – braver than even Harry could surely predict.

“I love you.” Liam mumbles into a sweaty neck. He feels like the words echo throughout the room, but silence answers him and Liam realises suddenly that the slow rise and fall of Harry’s chest means he’s asleep. It doesn’t matter, though – Liam doesn’t need a response. He’s more than happy to lie there, tangled with this man, and think of the future. He’s more than happy to imagine that this is how it could always be.

Liam thinks this is what love is supposed to feel like; not that echo of it he had before, when submission was all it took. Harry means so much more, _is_ so much more.

But these things have a way of falling apart - even if it's by Liam's own hand.

 

*******

 

He says goodbye to Harry for half an hour, the two of them kissing in the doorway to Harry’s flat before Niall throws something at them, yelling all the while.

“See you later.” Harry farewells him with a shy smile, and Liam responds in kind, his lips tingling with the memory of Harry’s pressed against them.

When he gets home he almost trips over something in the doorway going to dump his duffle and suitcase by the table there, looking down to see a note on the foreign bag. Liam has cleaners come in once a fortnight, and he’d forgotten they were due over the weekend. It’s Saturday night, so he guesses they had no other choice but to just leave it with a note.

_Found in corner of the living room_

Liam frowns, scrunching up the note and leaning down to peer into the bag. It’s not one of his, which – well, it must be Harry’s, then.

There’s an assortment of things shoved into the bag, like Harry was in a hurry when he closed it up, and Liam’s fingers encounter paper with a crinkling sort of sound. He hastily tries to smooth it all out in his lap, but then his eyes are helpless to slide over the typed words.

Liam sees things like _Payne uses money as a coping mechanism, guilty at the thought of personally spending the company’s millions when he doesn’t believe he’s earned his place as CEO, shafted into the position at the death of his father in 2007_ and _Though he boasts finery such as Rolex watches and a penthouse flat in Kensington, Payne is surprisingly humble and most definitely unaware of the effect his privilege has on the lives of his friends_ , and then he’s not bothering to read fully because every glimpse makes him shake harder, makes his grip on the papers clammy, Harry’s red cursive screaming out at him with his amendment of certain words and scribbling out of whole sections with annotations like _Too wordy!!!_ and _NOT OBJECTIVE_.

It’s silly, because Liam knew Harry was writing the article – it’s his biggest project this last semester, Liam _knows._ It’s how they bloody met, after all. The words still sting, though, because Liam never truly thought about what Harry might say; the concept had always felt far off and blurry, just out of reach.

He sets the papers aside, reaching further in and his palm running over aluminium, Harry’s new computer sitting at the bottom of the bag.

Liam knows he shouldn’t – but his hands are still shaking, and he needs to do something to confirm all of this, to realise he’s made the biggest mistake of his life; worse than Sophia, even.

There’s no password, and Liam’s greeted by a smiling Harry, his tattooed arms around a sweaty Niall and Louis. They look a bit younger – Harry’s hair is a tad shorter, and Niall has braces – but it’s a professional photo from a club outing, with the bright light hitting their faces and drinks in their hands. He spies the logo for the venue in the corner, underneath a folder on the desktop labelled ‘FEATURE’.

He clicks into it, and there are audio files, and then word documents with names _DRAFT,_ _FOURTH DRAFT,_ _FINAL FUCKING DRAFT FUKC._ He clicks on the first audio, and he hears his own voice talk about university and that small record label offer, the clatter of cutlery chiming in every now and then. He exits out, remembering a Saturday morning eons ago.

He skips forward to one a few numbers down, hears Harry speak very clearly into what must’ve been his phone, now that Liam’s remembering this.

_“Liam asks questions he already knows the answer to. He also knows I’m going to be perfectly objective–”_

_“Oh, do I?”_ His own voice comes through, and Liam cringes, rubbing a hand over his face.

 _“As there’s no way,”_ continues Harry. Liam can hear his mirth through the recording, even, _“That I’m going to write about his thick, fat cock splitting–”_

_“Harry!”_

_“–me open, his come all over me–”_

_“Jesus Christ.”_

_“No!”_ yells Harry, laughing. There’s rustling, panting breaths _. “I’m gonna be objective!”_ He’s cackling, and Liam can hear the struggle. _“I promise! I won’t talk about your O-face!”_

_“Harry!”_

It stops there, and Liam breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, as measured as he can muster.

He clicks through some others, which seem less damning than the papers, little observations about Liam’s work hours, his dog, his running schedule. When he clicks on the next one, though, there’s only choked breathing coming through, small hiccoughs. Liam’s heart twists inside his ribcage.

 _“Oh, God,”_ Harry gasps out, and Liam hears him sniffle loudly, trying to control himself, _“Fuck, sorry. Okay. Sorry. Shit.”_

There’s a deep inhale and then he’s easier to make out, voice clear despite being thick with emotion.

 _“Liam has,”_ There’s a sudden pause, and Harry exhales shakily, _“He’s got an issue with age, I think. Maybe it’s the w-way he was shoved into a position no person should take at twenty-five. Or m-maybe it’s because he’s always f-felt uncomfortable...”_ Harry huffs, _“in his own skin. Maybe.”_

The recording continues on, and the laughter from minutes ago – probably more like ten than two – is certainly gone, replaced by Harry’s voice, wobbly and stilted.

 _“Liam is... he’s hurt. He–”_ A deep breath, an unsteady exhale, _“Truly believes he’s alone, even with a schedule full and–”_ Harry laughs, wry and wet, _“–someone in his bed. Even when– when someone loves him, he believes he’s got nothing but the money he rushes to give a-away–”_

Liam turns it off, heart breaking.

Everything’s spinning, the walls coming in at him. Watson’s still at the kennel, and so the penthouse feels too empty.

Harry’s not there. Watson’s not there. Liam’s life isn’t there, and so he sinks to the floor, papers and laptop at his knees, and lets himself curl up, lets himself lean back against the door and the tears trail down his face, jaw tightening with every poisonous thought that races through his old, foolish brain.

He wants to go back to that bathtub, to Harry’s stupid, idiotic question. He wants to go back to that bed, to Harry under him laughing and lovely. Liam just wants to fucking go back to before Harry Styles came into his life and decided he had the right to pretend he felt anything; writing about Liam anyway, talking about his private life as if his readers were to be privy to it. There’s a fucking difference, Liam knows, between a feature article and a bloody _exposé._ He didn’t go to university but he fucking well knows that much.

Liam doesn’t pick up his phone, and he doesn’t look at his text messages. Saturday bleeds into Sunday and he knows that if he stays in his flat that Harry’s just going to come by, look and act concerned, and Liam just _can’t._ He _can’t._

He knows Fleur has her football matches on Sunday afternoons, and he knows he’s overdue. So he goes, and he sits on the side lines and watches her braids as she scores goal after goal, running around with her shirt over her head, undershirt sweaty. Liam knows Harry taught her that, and he pushes it all away, back under wraps, because Fleur doesn’t deserve to be tainted by Liam’s mistakes. She’s done nothing wrong.

“Leeyum!” She screams when she sees him at half-time, and she abandons her coach – who sighs – to barrel into him. “Did you see, did you see?”

“Yeah, Flower!” Liam enthuses, the smile on his face feeling stiff and unfamiliar. “Positively brilliant, you are!”

She preens, showing him a great big smile, going on to detail every goal as if Liam wasn’t watching.

“Where’s Harry?” Fleur asks, and she peers around him as if Liam’s ex-boyfriend is just hiding, reading to pop out and scare her at a moment’s notice.

“Not here, Flower,” Liam tells her, trying to keep smiling, “You... you might not see him for a little bit, alright?”

“Oh,” she says, frowning for barely a second before her face clears, her enthusiasm returning, “Is he on holiday?”

“Yeah, love,” Liam answers, thankful that she’s made the decision for him, “A really long holiday.”

“Fleur!” They both look over to see her coach gesturing hurriedly, and Liam knows they’re likely to go back on soon.

“Better go save the rest of the match.” Liam tells her, giving her a friendly poke which she squirms away from, laughing.

“You’d think _you_ were her father,” A voice says once she’s gone, and Liam turns to see Francis smiling. Liam can’t help but return it, moving in for a hug and a pat on the back.

“Alright, then?” Liam asks, and Francis shrugs, laughing.

“Best one can be with a little terror.”

“Of course, of course.” Liam nods, looking back out as Fleur calls for the ball, frustrated look on her face when it’s tackled away from her.

“Ain’t Harry that student who came by a few months ago?” Francis asks, and Liam tries not to flinch.

“Yeah.” Liam answers, coughing to clear his throat. He doesn’t elaborate, and Francis doesn’t prod. He’s suddenly grateful for Zayn’s honeymoon, even if it means he doesn’t have anyone to take pity on him.

But it ends up being about the only respite from the matter he gets, because on Monday night after a long day at work, he’s greeted with a persistent buzzing around eleven, Watson groaning from his bed.

“Easy, boy,” Liam tells him, giving him a rough pat before he pads over to the door, just socks and sweats not entirely appropriate but it’s late, and Liam has found himself giving less of a toss lately.

“Who is it?” Liam asks through the intercom, and there’s a sharp voice that replies, fed up.

“It’s Louis, you fucking wanker. Open the fucking door.”

Liam freezes a second, truly contemplating leaving the man outside but soon realising it’d do more harm than good. How would that look, some twenty year old swearing bloody murder outside Liam’s building? He knows Harry got buzzed up by Charlie when Liam wasn’t expecting him last time, but Louis doesn’t have that tenuous connection. Louis would stay out there all night, probably, and tell everyone who’d listen what a prick Liam is.

Liam lets him up, and he hovers by the door anxiously as he waits, jumping when the pounding starts.

“Open up, you dickhead!” Louis calls out, and Liam rushes forward to open the door, his neighbours likely to hear Louis shouting in the hallway.

Louis barely looks at him, just shoves past as soon as he’s able, seething.

“You’re a fucking piece of work, I tell you.” He swings around, a look of surprise on his face at Liam’s half-nakedness but barrelling on anyway, pointed face hard and unforgiving. “Harry’s at home wondering what the fuck happened because his _boyfriend,_ ” He steps forward to shove Liam in the chest, and Liam stumbles back, bringing his arms up instinctively to defend himself, “won’t talk to him.”

“It’s not even been three days–”

“Don’t even play that,” Louis interrupts darkly, glaring at him, “You talk every fucking day. 48 hours of nothing is a big _fucking_ deal!”

Liam rubs his hands over his face hurriedly; back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It makes his skin sting a bit, his nose feel funny.

“If you’re going to break up with him, you absolute waste of space, then fucking _break up with him.”_ He’s breathing heavily, his hoodie flattening his mussed hair, his skinny jeans and converse looking rumpled, like he pulled them on just to come over here. “And really? Like honestly? You’re thirty-two?” Louis smiles, sharp and unimpressed. “Wow. _Wow._ ”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Liam spits out, abruptly angry, “Just... stop it. Stop.”

“Fucking explain it to me, then.” Louis raises his arms, exasperated, still furious. “Because I don’t give two shits about you, to be honest. Harry’s the one I care about. So this better be a fucking good reason, or I’ll drag your name through the mud so thoroughly you won’t even be able to _write_ it once I’m done.”

“I found the article, alright?” Liam nearly shouts, running a trembling hand through his messy hair. His eyes ache, his contacts in for too long.

“The article?” Louis echoes, looking incredulous. “What _are_ you on about?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Liam grits out, “You know that’s how we met, you know Harry is writing it.”

“ _Was,_ ” Louis corrects him, eyes wide, “ _Was_ writing it. He stopped weeks ago.”

“What?” Liam asks, feeling his tone even, his brain whir. “No. I found his final draft, his voice notes...”

“Mate, Harry...” Louis frowns, and he shuffles in place, like he’s unsure if he should continue. He seems to make his mind up, though, because he sets his shoulders back and crosses his arms, a sense of finality to him. “Harry dropped out. A month or so ago. It was right after we met. I was fucking livid, him doing that. That’s his whole future, and he let it go for _you?_ ”

“What?” Liam gasps out, stumbling until his arse hits the side table, leaning against it for some kind of support. “No, he didn’t. He shouldn’t.”

Louis eyes him, less angry and more considering as his arms drop from his chest. “That’s what I said.”

“ _Jesus,_ ” Liam breathes, exhaling long and low. “I thought... I thought he was goin’ to publish it. That’s... it’s got personal information in there. Sounded like a bloody exposé.”

Louis laughs, hard and loud. “ _Fuck._ Harry is such a twat. Christ.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Liam scolds him, frowning.

“You’re just as bad as each other, this is fucking great,” He throws his hands up in the air in frustration, pushing off his hood as he scratches at his head, sighing.

Liam stays silent, hands on the table at either side and wondering what the hell is supposed to happen now, when Harry feels so far away, when he did all this just for Liam. It’s humbling; makes Liam realise he’s not worth that. No one is, not even someone else Harry might find. This is Harry’s education, and he can’t just throw it out the window because of... well, whatever they are.

“Harry is arse over tits for you, by the way,” Louis snorts, turning back to Liam, “If that wasn’t obvious.”

“Right,” Liam says awkwardly, straightening, “Erm... he’s home, then?”

“Yes,” groans Louis, “And you’re going to give me a lift back, because I hadn’t exactly thought that far ahead.”

The tarnished metal of the number fifteen on their bright red front door seems to glint ominously at Liam as he waits for Louis to turn the lock, swearing under his breath because it’s jammed a bit.

“Fuckin’ finally.” He breathes as he stumbles through. He doesn’t bother looking to see if Liam follows.

“Lou!” Harry cries out, and Liam sees him scramble up from the sofa, his face blotchy and damp in the low light of the room. “What the hell? I told you not... to...” He trails off when he sees Liam behind his short roommate, and Louis simply walks past him, the sound of his bedroom door closing nearly a slam.

“Harry,” Liam starts, voice rough with emotion, “Harry, I–”

“No, it’s alright,” Harry interrupts, wiping at his jaw absently, “I get it, it’s alright. I’m sorry Louis dragged you all the way here, I know it’s late.”

The air is thick between them, but not filled with promise like it usually is – now it’s mostly desolate, despairing.

“Can we... ?” Liam forms an unidentifiable gesture with his right hand in the direction of Harry’s room.

“I’d rather... out here, actually.” Harry swallows thickly, and Liam nods, tries not to imagine all the way this could go wrong in such an open, uncontrolled environment.

“I need to explain.” Liam states, walking around so he can sit on the sofa. He imagines it was a light grey once upon a time, but he notices now that the throws that cover it also cover up the myriad of stains adorning the fabric.

He hears Harry sit down next to him, pulling his socked feet up until he’s cross-legged in the corner of the sofa. Liam rests his head in his hands, taking a deep breath to prepare himself for this. He never imagined he’d speak of it so explicitly again, but beggars can’t be choosers, it seems.

“When I was twenty-four,” he begins, lifting his head to stare at the powerless television, “I met a woman called Sophia. A friend of a friend, I think. I can’t really remember how we knew each other. She,” Liam pauses, turning his head slightly to see Harry picking at a fraying hole in his light blue jeans, his faded black t-shirt looking like something Liam just wants to dive headfirst into. It’d be so much easier if he could bury himself in Harry, but he has to plough on. “She became my girlfriend rather quickly. I was... captivated by her. It’d been a while since I was last with someone, and Sophia paid so much attention to me. I should’ve,” Liam huffs, scratching at his jaw in discomfort, “Well, it’s obvious now what she was doing. But at the time I thought she really liked me, and I liked her.”

“We were together for a while. She was there when my family...” Liam turns to look at Harry, sees him looking back steadily, waiting patiently for the rest to come, “I introduced her to...” He wants to reach out and place a hand on Harry’s knee, squeeze it, remind him that Liam’s there and he’s not leaving... but he rather lost permission to do that somewhere along the way, so he just keeps talking instead, “To what I do, yeah? She was alright at first, seemed to like it. But then she just... she kept safe-wording.” Liam can see Harry frown out of the corner of his eyes, and he shifts to turn to him more fully. “And that’s, you know, okay. People should safe word if they need to. It just felt like, I dunno... she’d never actually liked it, and hadn’t bothered to tell me. I thought about it for months. I stopped asking for it, and we continued on like...” Liam twists his mouth, feeling a lump in his throat, “Like normal, I suppose.”

“Liam,” Harry says, and he sounds tentative. Liam swallows everything else back, determined to finish.

“Turns out she was, err, not really in it for me.” He looks up, finally, to see Harry leant forward, hands still in his lap. “She worked in fashion, and I always wanted to help her, y’know? She was my girlfriend. Seemed to work a little too well, though, because she started to say things about me, about what I liked, and people were... they were sympathising with her?” Liam frowns, moving until his back hits the sofa, a deep sigh coming from him. “Like it was something awful she was going through, when she’d never... she’d never even said she hated it. That’s what I couldn’t understand. It was like we were in two completely different relationships.”

Harry lifts a hand, runs it affectionately through Liam’s hair. “Liam,” he says again, and Liam closes his eyes, “I’m sorry.”

“Once she got a scholarship for the Master’s program of her choice, she left.” Liam finishes dully, opening his eyes to see Harry frown again. “It’s about all I was good for, getting her in.”

“You didn’t,” Harry says, face falling, “Liam, you didn’t.”

“I wrote her a glowing letter of recommendation. Straight from Payne Records, where she’d been helping style the artists for years. That sealed the deal, I reckon.”

“Fuck.” Harry breathes out slowly, his hand coming to a stop at the back of Liam’s head.

“Yeah,” Liam agrees, for lack of anything else to say. He feels lighter, now that Harry knows – but the concerns still weigh him down; the way Harry almost fell into the same trap as his last partner. It’s been so hard to make sure Liam hasn’t been making the same mistakes. “So that’s me, then.”

Harry moves rather quickly, given their interactions so far tonight have been slow and steady. All of a sudden, he’s straddling him on the couch, his thighs bracketing Liam’s and his arms folding around him, giving Liam a hug he’s never exactly had before.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into Liam’s hair, pulling back to brush it off of Liam’s forehead, “I didn’t know. I mean, you know that I didn’t know. But I would’ve... I would’ve been different, if I’d known.”

“ _No,_ Harry,” stresses Liam, resting his hands on Harry’s waist, “You were yourself, and that’s all I wanted.” He looks up at this man, with his earnest eyes and forgiving nature, and wonders how he ever came to be here. “And I’m the one who’s sorry, for not explaining it to you, for not trusting you with this.”

“I know it’s only been, like, two and a bit months,” Harry says, tone a little watery as he looks down at Liam, such a contrast to every other time he’s been like this with him, “but it’s absurd how much I love you, Liam. It really is.”

Liam finds his breath stolen from him, looking up at Harry like this, like he’s a deity to be worshipped and adored. He feels his eyes sting, wishing he could blame it on the dryness caused by his contact lenses. “Say it to me again.”

“I’m in love with you.” Harry confesses, and he’s smiling through tears, too. Liam glides his hands up Harry’s body, framing his face between his palms and dragging Harry into him, crushing their lips together, their tears mixing in the mayhem.

“I love you,” Liam pants out a minute or two later, the two of them a mixed up tangle of love and limbs, “I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, laughing into Liam’s mouth, tone thick, “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” Liam insists, kissing him again, “I’ve told you before, there’s nothing I could forget about you. As soon as you left my office you were on my mind, and you haven’t much left it.”

There’s not much talking after that, Harry rushing to get off of Liam, pulling him behind him as he stumbles into his own bedroom, pushing Liam down onto the bed just as quickly.

When they’re naked and covered in their own release, Harry asks him.

“I want you to meet my family,” he says, and he lifts his head to look at him, Liam’s hand stilling in Harry’s curls, abandoning his idle play, “My mum and my sister, and my step-dad.”

“Alright,” Liam agrees, and wishes he could extend the same, “But you’ve got to go back to uni, babe.” Harry frowns, a slight pout to his plentiful lips. “Harry, you’re so close to graduating.”

“But, the article–”

“Defer it,” Liam blurts out, “Write about something else next semester. This is mutual, remember? Giving up your education for me isn’t very equal, Haz.” Harry’s eyes flit between Liam’s, and Liam gives him a smile. “Trust me, I’m old and wise.”

Harry tries to tamp down a smile. “You’re not.”

“I am,” Liam tries to convince him, and his eyes glide over Harry’s head to the purple lava lamp. He removes his hand from Harry’s hair and reaches out to rest it on the lamp. “Had one of these when I was in sixth form.” Harry turns his head, looks to what Liam is referencing.

“The nineties are back in fashion,” Harry tells him, turning back with a wide smile.

“I could show you pictures you’d laugh at,” chuckles Liam, “That’s how old I am.”

“You’re not.” Harry reiterates, his smile fading.

“I am,” repeats Liam, letting his hand come back to Harry’s curls, smiling happily, “And that’s okay, babe,” He kisses him, feeling the rush of life in his veins, the thump of it in his chest, “it’s alright.”

Harry presses into him tenderly, nibbling at Liam’s bottom lip and moulding his body to Liam’s. _This is easy,_ Liam thinks.

There’s no expiration date anymore. This is now and it’s forever.

Liam doesn’t wish he could stay, not again. He knows he can, and he knows he will.

 

***

 

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

 

“Revolting,” Louis declares, face scrunching up in distaste, “That’s enough of that.”

“Shut up, Lou,” Harry mutters before going back to kissing Liam, the bar loud and cheerful around them.

“Mate, don’t even try,” Niall laughs, munching on some chips, “Caught them snogging in my room once. Nowhere is sacred.”

Liam laughs, having to pull away from Harry to bury his face in his shoulder, the flannel soft and worn.

“That’s more than enough kisses for good luck, Haz,” Liam admits once he’s composed himself, even if he could easily keep going, on and on and on until last call, until they’d be kicked out for indecency.

“Says who?” Harry retorts, grinning with those dimples.

“Says me,” interrupts Zayn, pulling Liam away from the table, “It’s time to go, mate.”

“I’ll think of you!” Harry cries, and Louis whacks him over the head with a soft hand, rolling his eyes.

The small stage seems bigger now that Liam has to go up there and perform, his hands sweating under the dim lighting of the venue.

“You’ll be fine. This is child’s play in comparison to a board meeting.”

“I never actually listened in those.” Liam teases with a straight face.

“That worries me,” Zayn deadpans back, onto Liam in a heartbeat, “And thankfully they aren’t your problem anymore.”

“No,” Liam agrees, feeling a little lost at the thought. It’s been a week since the handover, and though he’ll never have to work again if he doesn’t want to, it’s still a strange sensation to spend a Monday morning in bed, his boyfriend trying to convince him to have sex in the shower instead of slaving away alone at a desk high up in Kensington.

“You’ll be aces, babe,” Zayn reassures him, patting him on the back, “Just pick up the guitar and pretend you’re home alone.”

“I’m never home alone.”

Zayn sighs. “Stop bein’ a dick and _go!_ ” He pushes Liam the last little bit, and Liam almost trips over his guitar before picking it up, lifting a hand to acknowledge Louis’ laughter and Harry’s shout of encouragement from the back.

“My name’s Liam,” He says into the mic, listening to the chatter quiet down but not die completely, smiling at a couple holding hands up front, “And, err,” He tries not to laugh, the two beers he had beforehand helping with the nerves a bit, even if his right hand almost fumbles the pick. “Anyway, this is Wonderwall.”

“Oh, fuck off!” Louis shouts from the back, and Liam laughs, feels his eyes crinkle up so bad he almost can’t see properly.

“No, no,” Liam assures everyone, the laughter echoing around the room, “Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m not an Oasis fan.” A few more laughs, and Liam adjusts the guitar strap, positioning his fingers. “This one’s actually for my boyfriend,” Liam ducks his head, smiles, “Err, he’s not an Oasis fan either, don’t worry.”

The laughs help Liam ease into the first few chords, and then he just looks at his guitar, thinks about playing this to Harry on a rainy Sunday to awed silence.

[“Now here you go again, you say you want your freedom,”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrZRURcb1cM) He sings, “Well who am I to keep you down? It's only right that you should play the way you feel it... but listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness, like a heartbeat drives you mad in the stillness of remembering what you had... and what you lost, and what you had, and what you lost...”

He looks up as he continues with the second verse. He can’t see Harry – can’t even see an outline through the dim spotlight on him, through the shadows of the bar.

The difference now, though, is that he knows that Harry’s there, singing along. He knows Harry’s swaying, his hair longer now than ever before, grazing past his collarbones. He knows Harry will kiss Liam when he returns to the table after the set, and he’ll know Harry will whisper “I love you,” when they’re cleaning their teeth side by side that same night.

It’s not always easy; not when people still give Liam weird looks when they go out together, his stubble looking a little greyer than usual. It’s wasn’t easy when Harry’s sister got married and the bridal party thought Liam was someone’s step-dad. It’s not easy when Harry gets hit on at bars and clubs by people his own age; when he came home to Liam in the early months and talked about the girl he’d been dancing with all night, who was studying architecture and had three brothers.

It’s not easy – but Liam’s learnt it doesn’t have to be, just to be real. That’s what they both know, and it’s alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this ending, I will admit. Hopefully it's up to par! Please let me know what you think in the comments.
> 
> [Here is the rebloggable fic post.](http://undercutzayn.tumblr.com/post/169218605760) 
> 
> Happy New Year!


End file.
